


The World As We Know It

by MizJoely



Series: In the Blood [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Vamp!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Vampires took over and Humans are mostly slaves. But some Vampires think things should be different...not necessarily the way it was before, but something more balanced and logical. Vamp!Sherlock and Human Molly are forced together, but perhaps together is where they can make a difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude To A New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by asteraceaeblue, thank you so much!

** **

**Prelude to a New World**

It shouldn't have been possible for so small a number to suddenly be ruling the world, but the Vampires had been smart...and patient. They'd spent the better part of the 20th century carefully setting things up for what would be known as the Great Takeover, with the final push coming during the decade between 1990 and the year 2000.

Vampires were by nature long-term planners. Slowly but surely they began Turning rich and powerful families, so that by the time they were poised for their eventual takeover of the world they'd nearly doubled their numbers.

When 1990 was less than twenty-four hours old, the Vampires moved out of stealth mode and began Turning those they deemed most useful to their cause in unprecedented numbers: heads of state and media moguls, wealthy and influential celebrities and CEOs, generals and weapons dealers, over the course of that decade. Even after swelling their ranks with these mass Turnings, they still only numbered in the low millions. Not a huge portion of the population in a world of six billion, but enough to rule. Enough for the have-nots to suddenly find themselves members of a slave race, used as servants and (mostly) unwilling blood donors to the elite, their population strictly, some would say ruthlessly, controlled via means of enforced sterilization for those deemed less than useful in the new world order, and enforced birth control of a more temporary nature for those who would eventually be permitted to parent the next generation of slaves and potential Turned.

The takeover itself was relatively peaceful, starting as it did from the top; the immediate aftermath, however, proved to be a horrific affair, with wars, famine, pestilence, all being wielded by the world's new Vampire masters as tools to reduce the mortal population to something they deemed manageable.

During the course of that chaotic decade, the Vampires exerted many methods of population control in an effort to further reduce the unruly masses of humanity into something they deemed manageable. The chronically ill, the elderly, the infirm, anyone dependent in any way on medication to keep them alive or mentally stable were exterminated with a ruthlessness and even enthusiasm to rival anything the Nazis or Soviets had managed. Students at university level were divided into “useful” and “not” categories. The useful (medical students, science majors, education majors) were allowed to continue their studies. The others (theater majors, soft science majors and the like) were sent to Blood Reservations, which were in the process of being established all over the world for much the same purpose that cattle were herded to the stockyards.

People resisted all this, of course. Students rose up from both groups and were cut down with equal disdain. The military was chaos for a while, with the common soldiers divided almost equally amongst those willing to fight the Vampires and those more concerned with protecting their families or their own selves by siding with what they perceived – correctly, as it turned out – to be the winning side.

By the end of the first decade following the Great Takeover, humanity had lost more than a third of its population, and a “new normal” had uneasily settled into place.

Most children under the age of ten were separated from their parents, to be raised in what amounted to 1984-esque brainwashing and indoctrination centers, where they were taught that the world had been nothing but chaos and desperation before the Great Takeover. That everything was much better once humanity learned its place. Safer. Cleaner. Well-ordered.

Oh, and that their sacred duty was to provide blood for the Masters. Any Master. On demand – unless, of course, they were Marked as belonging to a particular Vampire or their House. And that their full and enthusiastic cooperation would lead to a long life – possibly even to being Turned, if they proved worthy of such an honor – whereas defiance led only to pain and death.

Most children over the age of ten were deemed too old to be properly raised to the new realities of the world and were separated from their parents and forced onto the same reservations as the college students. To the majority of their Vampire masters, their only usefulness ran through their veins.

Few of those children lived to reach the age of eighteen. Intelligence and physical fitness were the only criteria that might spare such a child; if a Master deemed them valuable – and docile – enough, they were brought into a Vampire household and Marked. Any rebelliousness that ensued was punished in only one way: by their immediate death.

There were other exceptions, of course. Children whose parents held valuable skills, who could bargain for their offspring's lives by offering their full and unequivocal cooperation.

Molly Hooper was eleven when the Great Takeover began. Her parents were biochemists, deemed important enough that her life was offered in return for their loyalty to the new Vampire overlords. She was their only child. They were terrified for her life. Of course they cooperated. What loving parent wouldn't?

As a result, she found herself one of the few children of her age allowed to remain with her parents, not shuffled off to a reeducation center or forced into a Blood Reservation. Ten years later, she considered herself lucky to be alive at all. She considered herself even luckier to not be pretty enough to catch the eye of one of the Masters, to be Marked and forced into slavery of a different kind.

As it turned out, the romance novel version of Vampires her mother had once been fond of reading was closest to the truth; they were ruthless killers, yes, Undead in the sense that one had to actually die and rise up again to become a Vampire, but still capable of – and quite interested in – having sex.

No, Molly Hooper was grateful she didn't end up in a Blood Brothel or the mistress of a Vampire who would discard her as soon as another beautiful face caught his eye, or placed in a harem some of the most powerful kept, a stable of women to provide blood and sex and sometimes allowed to give birth to the half-Human, half-Vampire crossbreeds that held their own peculiar status in the new world order – not slaves, not Masters, capable of moving about in the daylight and mostly acting as a sort of warrior/police class, keeping their Vampire forbears safe from the occasional attempt at an uprising.

Because humanity was down, but it never counted itself out. Not even under these horrific circumstances; despots and tyrants had arisen time and again, and time and again people had risen up against them. This time, many of them determined, would be no different.

Especially since there were actually members of the so-called “Master Race” of Vampires who sided with them.

Most importantly, the younger brother of one of the most powerful Turned in London.

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. A Life Upended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Molly Hooper and a few other familiar -- it not entirely friendly -- faces.

Molly Hooper wasn't brave – or stupid – enough to join any kind of a rebellious movement, although she was certainly aware they existed. As someone whose parents had been branded collaborators by those who savagely resented their new place in the world, she was never going to be deemed trustworthy enough for any rebel to approach her for assistance, no matter what position she held.

Because of this, knowing what kind of persecution she would face as the child of collaborators, her parents altered her birth records, making it seem as if she were born two years later than she actually was. To the Human world, Molly Elizabeth Hooper was 30 years old, rather than 32.

Children of collaborators born before the Great Takeover tended to die mysterious, Human-caused, deaths within days of being identified as such. The fact that they were as much victims as anyone else didn't seem to matter to the more fanatical Vamp-haters. Molly could hardly fault them; most of these executioners had lost so many friends and family to their new Masters that they'd basically gone crazy with grief.

Still, it didn't mean she intended to ever become a victim of her own kind. As long as it didn't impact the Vampire world, the imposed order, Humans could do whatever they liked to one another; there were enough of them left alive, after all, for the Masters to feed on until the end of time.

Because of her parents' foresight, she survived the dangers of being born to collaborators and was well aware of the dangers life would continue to throw at her even without that stigma hanging over her head. She had a flat of her own, which she'd inherited after they'd both died, and a career as a pathologist at St. Bart's hospital. Because even with Vampires in charge of things, there were still police forces for the Humans, still crimes to be solved, murders and suicides to be determined. If anything, the Vampires were even more obsessed with bureaucracy and paperwork and the need for answers than the Humans they now ruled.

By the year 2011, Molly's life had settled into a pattern that seemed unlikely to change: working quietly in the morgue at St. Bart's, living even more quietly in her flat less than a mile away, with her cat Toby for company (pets were allowed, although organized religion and a myriad of other comforts both physical and emotional had been banned – no Humans could wear any type of perfume or cologne or scented soap or deodorant, for example, as it masked their natural scents, although shampoo and conditioners could still be scented, for some unknown reason) and the remote possibility of finding someone to share her life with.

She was actually musing on the topic of religion as she worked on the body in front of her on the day her life was so dramatically altered, wondering (not for the first time) why religion was banned when religious objects, as it turned out, had absolutely no effect on Vampires unless made of silver (to which they had some very serious allergies).

That was the day Mycroft Holmes swept into her morgue and completely upended her quiet, uneventful life.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Molly was deep in an autopsy of a man who appeared to have been the victim of a rogue Vampire attack. With their near-obsession with order, the Masters – mostly via their half-Human offspring – policed themselves almost as ruthlessly as they did their Human slaves. It didn't happen often, since they were so incredibly picky when it came to who they offered near-immortality to, but occasionally a Vampire went, to put it mildly, completely bonkers – killing anyone who crossed their path, not even drinking more than a token amount of blood and therefore, to the rest of the Vampire world's collective mind, needlessly wasting resources and causing excessive restlessness in the Human population, which in turn could set off another round of riots and attempts at insurrection, which had settled into a lull in the last five years or so.

One of the many, many facts about Vampires that had been learned over the course of the 1990s, when they first publicly revealed their existence, was that they didn't need to kill to obtain the blood they needed to survive, which made the rogues all the more troubling to other Vampires. They could and occasionally did live off of bagged blood that had been warmed up in, of all things, an ordinary microwave oven. Molly had witnessed that last first hand, when one of the few Vampires that actually deigned to work at the hospital popped by to oversee an autopsy and became a bit peckish.

Vampires held all positions of power, of course; no large institution such as St. Bart's was left to mere Humans to run, thus all administrators were Vampires or crossbreeds. There were even a few surgeons who'd been Turned and preferred to keep up with their skills even though they now regarded their Human patients more as guinea pigs in a scientific experiment than people whose lives were worthy of saving.

Molly knew the protocol when one of the Masters arrived in a room; she was supposed to bow her head and wait for permission to continue what she was doing. Unfortunately for her, she didn't realize who had entered the morgue until after she'd snapped (without looking up from the delicate process of removing the victim's heart): “I'll be with you in a minute, don't get your knickers in a twist!”

In her defense, it had been a long day, filled with one emergency after another; it was an hour past the end of her shift, and for the past half-hour her supervisor, Mike Stamford, had been sticking his head in the door every five minutes to check on her progress. However, even if she'd said Mike's name when she spoke, it wouldn't have mattered to the two Vampires that had entered the room instead of him.

She only recognized her mistake when she found herself seized by the iron hands of the female Vampire. “The Master requests your assistance,” she hissed (the woman Molly would soon know as “Lady Anthea”), forcing Molly to turn and face the man she'd just snapped at. “And your apology.”

Molly was forced to her knees, eyes wide in sudden terror. God, how could she have screwed up so badly, after spending most of her life making sure she flew under the radar, kept herself scrupulously well behaved and as close to invisible to the Vampires and potential rebels as she could manage? “F-forgive me,” she stammered out, lowering her head, heart thundering in her chest as she awaited her fate.

Rogues were put down by their own kind for random, senseless binge-killings, but any Human that defied a Master was fair game. She could find herself out of a job, beaten to within an inch of her life, relegated to a Blood Reservation...

Or killed.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Mycroft studied the woman kneeling before him. She was properly terrified now, where she'd appeared confident and assured – if somewhat harassed and overworked – before realizing her potentially fatal error. Before Anthea reminded her of her place in the new world order.

He'd been Turned, along with his entire family – mother, father, extremely difficult younger brother – in 1940. Although it had been something of a shock to discover that there was a superior race lurking in the shadows – although not, as was once believed, a _supernatural_ race – he believed he had adjusted rather well. 

Mummy hadn't, but then, she'd always been a bit too sentimental. She'd walked out into the dawn one Christmas morning and allowed herself to be turned to ash less than six months after V-J Day. 

Sherlock had become even more difficult after their mother's suicide, had turned to drugs for a few decades following their Turning, cutting himself off from his remaining family – not that he and Father had ever been close, and he and Mycroft had violently disagreed as to how they should handle their sudden change from Human to Vampire – and sinking into a kind of self-destructive despair that had not, in the end, resulted in him joining their mother. Much to Mycroft's surprise and, although he would never admit it, relief. Sherlock had always had just enough of the Holmes selfishness to keep him from jumping off the edge of whatever metaphorical cliff he happened to be edging toward at any point in his life.

Now, after seven decades of existence as a Vampire, Sherlock seemed to have found some peace within himself. He'd reestablished contact with Mycroft in the 1970s – although, tellingly enough, _not_ with their father Sigerson – and had eventually started a career of sorts, starting in the late 1980s, as part of his camouflage whilst masquerading as Human. He'd then confounded his elder brother by continuing his “consulting detective” work after the Great Takeover, although he'd been forced into an understandable hiatus during the turbulent years immediately following the Great Takeover.

Not that any Vampire needed a “career” as such – Mycroft's own “minor” position in the new British government hardly counted, since Humans desperately needed the order he and his kind had finally imposed on them – but certainly he approved of anything that kept his brother from sinking back into the depths into which he'd descended after their mother's suicide.

However, there were rumors emerging, rumors that his brother's sudden desire to function within society rather than moping about on its fringes had more to do with his belief that Humans had done just fine ruling themselves and didn't need overlords of any kind running their lives, than with any desire to acquiesce to his brother's ongoing requests that he do so.

Thus his arrival at St. Bart's. Sherlock had been granted permission by the Hospital Administrator, an Elder Vampire who'd existed since the end of the Roman Empire, to use the facilities of the morgue and pathology lab to perform experiments and examine corpses in order to assist the Human police with their investigations in his continuing capacity as a Consulting Detective.

Mycroft had come in advance of his brother's arrival in order to review the staff and facilities, and had been confronted by exactly the situation – and person – he'd been seeking for so long. The right woman to help bring his insufferably stubborn brother to heel.

The pathologist was young, no more than her early thirties, still prime reproductive age. He would have her medical history researched, of course. She was also reasonably attractive, although nothing about her hair (brown-shading-to-auburn worn in a sloppy pony-tail), clothing (loose knit top and baggy khakis hiding what he suspected to be a more than adequate figure), or lack of make-up (she really needed to at least wear some kind of lipstick, her lips were much too small without any added color to them) seemed designed to draw the eye of any Human or Vampire male. It was deliberate, of course; she was obviously heterosexual but it didn't take a genius of his caliber to understand why she would want to avoid male notice, since she clearly wasn't the type to want to be brought under the personal protection of a Vampire.

A pity, that, but what Humans wanted had failed to be a concern to Mycroft the night the family's newest housemaid had joined him in his bedroom for what he assumed was to be a simple romp between the sheets – and had turned into that and so, so much more when she'd bitten him and brought him into her world.

No, the pathologist who'd just made such a fundamental error was, in his estimation, perfect for the plan he had in mind for Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled, flashing his fangs although she couldn't see them with her head bowed, shoulders tensed as she awaited her punishment.

“Let her up,” he ordered Anthea, who immediately did as instructed. He stepped forward, stopping when he was less than two feet in front of her. His eyes flashed to her identification tag – Dr. Molly Hooper, Type A-B Negative, Certified Disease- and Drug-Free less than a month earlier.

All to the good. “Look at me, Dr. Hooper.”

She raised her head, eyes darting nervously up to meet his. She was tiny, no more than five foot three in her flat-soled shoes. Sherlock had always preferred his women petite in his breathing days – at least, when he'd been a teenager, the last time Mycroft was aware of his brother forming any kind of romantic or physical relationship with a woman.

Dr. Hooper seemed as surprised by his use of her title as she was by the calm demeanor he presented to her where she clearly anticipated anger. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I am employed in a minor capacity in the government.” He gave her a moment to allow his identification of himself to sink in, then continued on a different tack, knowing it would throw her off balance – exactly where he wanted her to be. “You've worked here since you were allowed to graduate medical school, two years now. Your parents are dead but not killed by Vampires, victims of Human violence, leading to your interest in pathology. You own a cat and live less than a mile from this facility.”

She openly gaped at him as he recited his litany of facts, none of which he'd researched in advance. His brother could have told her what breed of cat she owned and whether or not she had any siblings, but Mycroft had no interest in discovering more about her beyond the medical information he would have Anthea research.

Bored with the deducing process, he instructed her to remove her lab coat and clean herself up, allowing himself a slight smile as he heard her heartbeat speed up and smelled the sudden increase in her fear. Ah, she expected him to begin the punishment she believed due to her snappish words. He considered reassuring her that she was not about to join the corpse currently resting on her autopsy table, then decided against it. She would be in the proper frame of mind when he delivered her to his brother's flat if she continued to believe she was about to die.

Anthea contacted Dr. Hooper's supervisor to inform him that she was no longer available to finish up the autopsy she'd started, but gave him no further information within Molly's hearing.

The terrified pathologist did as instructed. Mycroft watched impassively as she did her best to control the violent tremors shivering over her body as she placed her soiled lab coat in the laundry hamper, washed her hands and face and combed her hair, then meekly asked permission to retrieve her belongings from her locker. She waited with obvious fear for the answer; if she was told “no” it would be a clear sign that her time on Earth had nearly come to an end.

She showed the expected signs of relief when he nodded his approval. Anthea escorted her to the ladies’ locker room, then brought her to Mycroft's car, waiting outside the building for them. He was already seated inside, and indicated she should sit opposite him while Anthea took her usual place next to the Human chauffeur.

Mycroft regarded his newest acquisition expressionlessly. Dr. Hooper, on the other hand, was clearly continuing to fight down her terror as she clutched her purse and jacket to her chest. Her hands were still shaking, and Mycroft was hard-pressed not to bite her; the scent of blood and sweat and sweet, sweet terror would be quite intoxicating to any Vampire.

He, however, hadn't been nicknamed “The Iceman” for nothing. Self-control had become a way of life for him, ironically enough, within days after his death and rebirth.

His brother wouldn't be able – or allowed – to turn this one down. His innate sense of fair play and regrettable attachment to the Human race would see to that. 

Especially if Mycroft made it clear that this woman's life was at stake.


	3. A Fraught Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft introduces Molly to Sherlock...and her new life.

They arrived at a rather nondescript building on Baker Street; not a posh area, but certainly not as impoverished as many areas of London had become as its population dropped and Humans became too preoccupied with the day-to-day struggle to survive to have time to worry about things like urban blight. The flat Mycroft Holmes brought Molly to was located over a sandwich shop. The address on the door read 221B.

Molly wondered, not for the first time, what exactly was going to happen to her. Her shaking had subsided somewhat during the twenty minute ride to Baker Street, but it started anew as Master Holmes indicated she should follow him up the stairs to the first floor.

He pushed open the door without bothering to knock. Even if he had, Molly doubted he could be heard over the caterwauling of a violin playing something – well, she wasn't sure what kind of music it was, but it definitely wasn't classical.

Her sense of humor temporarily reasserted itself; perhaps this was her punishment, an afternoon spent listening to that ghastly noise?

All humor faded as they entered the flat. It was clearly the home of a Vampire; there were heavy shutters and blackout curtains on the windows, although they were open to allow the night air to waft through the sitting room and kitchen she found herself facing. The kitchen, what little she could see of it, appeared to be in use as a chem lab and storage facility rather than for cooking or eating; the counters and table were piled high with beakers and other scientific paraphernalia that would have piqued her interest in other circumstances.

The musician – if the abuser of the violin could be called such – was standing in front of the window that looked out over Baker Street. He must have seen the limo pull up, must have watched as they filed out of the car – Lady Anthea was behind her, a silent reminder that if she tried to run she wouldn't get very far at all – and made their way to the door of the building.

He also must have heard them coming, because as soon as he turned to face them, his alabaster skin and luminous blue eyes instantly gave him away as a Vampire even if his residence hadn't already prepared Molly for the possibility.

A Vampire, and God help her, the most incredibly handsome man she'd ever laid eyes on. In spite of the precariousness of her situation, Molly spared a moment to wish that she'd freshened her lipstick and removed her bulky cardigan – she wore a much more flattering camisole beneath it – before leaving Bart's.

Then the rest of her brain caught up with her pleasure-center and reminded her in no uncertain terms that she wasn't here to meet a blind date. She was in a Vampire's home, surrounded by three Vampires unless there were more in the other rooms of the flat, awaiting punishment of some kind for an entirely unintentional slight.

The new Vampire was tall and thin with exquisite cheekbones visible even in the dim lighting of the flat, and a mop of curly, dark brown hair, nearly black, that Molly's fingers insisted they needed to run through, _right now, thank you_. His mouth, currently downturned in a slight frown, formed a perfect Cupid’s bow like none she’d ever seen before. An eminently kissable mouth, that.

Molly couldn't recall the last time her limbic system had betrayed her like this. Certainly none of the Humans she'd dated – totaling exactly four – had stirred such a reaction in her. It was as if this man ( _Vampire_ , she had to remember he wasn't just a man, he was a fucking _Vampire_ , why was that so hard for her to grasp?) affected her at the most basic, primal level. If he'd crooked his little finger at her she would have gone down on her knees for him right then and there, even with the other two looking on, done anything he asked of her...

Panic washed over her. Some Vampires had a sort of charm or charisma they could turn on and off at will, and used to toy with their victims, make them think they'd fallen in love when it was a purely physical reaction. Was he doing this to her? And if so, why?

He showed no signs that he found her remotely attractive; his eyes had raked over her dismissively before he focused his attention on the two Vampires who'd brought her here. And his eyes were still that cold blue – no sign of the red that colored their irises when physically aroused. So no, it wasn't something he was doing, unless everything she'd been taught and observed about Vampires and sexual interest was untrue.

While her mind and heart were racing, Master Holmes had taken two steps closer to the other Vampire. He glanced at Molly before speaking. “Sherlock,” he said, either in introduction – most Vampires, especially if they'd been posh to begin with, had excruciatingly correct manners even when they were about to rip out your throat – or as a prelude to speaking further.

“No,” the other man – Vampire – replied as he turned back to the window. He raised his violin as if about to start playing again. Molly had been so distracted by his devastating looks she hadn't even noticed he'd stopped.

“She was disrespectful to me in front of a witness,” Master Holmes said before the bow more than rested on the strings.

Sherlock, as Molly supposed the other Vampire's name to be, froze, then looked over his shoulder at Master Holmes with an incredulous expression on his face. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he snapped, once again looking at Molly as if she were a laboratory specimen. “No, Mycroft,” he repeated, more forcefully this time. “You can't...”

“I can and I will,” the other Vampire replied, his voice remaining calm and cold. Icy, Molly would say. She remained silent and unmoving, although her fingers had clenched into fists by her side and she'd belatedly remembered to lower her eyes so that all she saw of Sherlock was his black silk pyjama-clad legs and ratty (ratty? A Vampire wearing _ratty_ clothes?) gray slippers. “Shall I rip her throat out or have Anthea do it?”

Molly forgot to breathe, her terror suddenly trebling at those coldly spoken words. Oh God, he was going to kill her...but why, the small (very, very, _very_ small) part of her that could still form a coherent thought wondered, was he acting like it was as much a threat to this other Vampire as it was to her?

Apparently that part of her was much more astute than the panic-stricken rest of her. Her eyes flew up and she recognized a helpless sort of rage in Sherlock's expression, one she'd seen many times before – in a Human's eyes, when some hapless victim found themselves randomly selected to appease a Vampire's sudden peckishness in the halls of the hospital or on the street when she hurried home to her flat.

Like everyone else, she'd learned to turn, not quite a blind eye, but a deliberately unfocused eye on such occurrences. She'd never believed it possible that a Vampire – one of the Masters, rulers of the world – could wear that same look.

“She's got two completely different sets of records as well,” the female Vampire volunteered from behind Mycroft, studying her mobile as she spoke, sounding bored. As if none of this mattered, as if Molly's life wasn't on the line. “According to our database she was born in 1979, but according to the Human database, she wasn't born until 1981.”

Oh _God_. Molly must have stopped breathing for moment, because suddenly she was gasping for air. It made no difference to the Vampires that there were two sets of records – that was frequently the case for the children of collaborators, a very small attempt to make them feel safe among their own kind, as her own parents had done – but if anyone outside of this room (and still alive in every sense of the word) were to find out, Molly's life could end even if she walked out of this situation unscathed. There were too many Humans who bore an unreasonable hatred toward any child born before the Great Takeover who had been allowed to escape the reservations all other children of that era had been forced into.

Sherlock appeared to understand this as well; his eyes narrowed and he moved into the other Vampire’s personal space in order to stare him down. “You wouldn't,” he said, his voice, his eyes, his stance all a challenge.

A challenge Master Holmes accepted calmly – and appeared to dismiss. “I would,” he affirmed. “You know I would.”

Sherlock studied him a moment longer, then abruptly stepped away and turned to face the window, both hands behind his back, clutching the violin and bow almost tightly enough to snap the fragile wood. “Fine,” he growled without turning around. “Leave her.”

“Her belongings and cat will be delivered tomorrow,” Master Holmes said, and two minutes later Molly found herself alone in the flat with Sherlock, wondering what the hell had just happened.

They were moving her belongings – and Toby – here...why? Oh God, had she just been delivered to this Vampire to be his personal slave? That wasn't...it wasn't supposed to work like that. She had a job, she had a life, she'd done her very best to avoid situations that could lead to something like this, worked hard, kept her head down, dressed the opposite of provocatively...yet here she was. 

Sherlock turned and raked her with an appraising stare that felt much more intense than his first glancing – and dismissive – look at her. She held still as he deliberately eyed her from head to toe and back again, trying her best to calm her pounding heart and chaotic, panicky thoughts. Hot and cold flashes swept over her and her trembling had increased to the point that her teeth were chattering in her head.

His next words did nothing to calm her. “Remove those hideous clothes,” he snapped. “I need to get a proper look at you if I'm to accede to my brother's wishes and save your life.”

Brother...the other Vampire was this man's _brother_? 

It wasn't important. Not now. The part of her mind that was wholly occupied with self-preservation was chattering at her that a Vampire had just given her an order – and that if she valued her life, she'd damned well get busy stripping off her clothes. However, she couldn't help wondering as she did so how this was going to save her life...and why this particular Vampire would even care whether she lived or died.

She while her chaotic thoughts continued to dash around like a school of panicked herring within her mind, her body was busy doing as she'd been ordered, removing her clothing with shaking hands. She toed off her shoes as she removed her cardigan, trousers, and socks. She was just reaching to pull her lacy blue camisole over her head when she heard Sherlock speak. “Stop,” he said, his voice impossibly close – when had he moved?

She looked up without thinking, to see his face only inches away from her own. She sucked in a startled breath at the close-up view of his incredible eyes, which were still lit with the phosphorescent glow all vampires had in low lighting, the shimmer they could mask only in full darkness.

“Your figure is more than passable, much trimmer than your choice of clothing would suggest,” he said, his voice low and husky. Molly started to duck her head, but he reached out and grasped her chin in his cool fingers, turning her head to one side and then the other. Examining her features with an intensity that threatened to turn her knees to jelly.

Where had her terror gone? Why was she reacting to him so strongly, when a lifetime of conditioning told her she should be begging for mercy or running for her life? She thought she might faint when his long, cool fingers reached out to grasp her hands, turning them this way and that as he examined them. “You work as a pathologist or doctor...no, definitely a pathologist,” he proclaimed, not even bothering to acknowledge the flicker of surprise in her eyes as he continued to speak, deducing her much the same way his brother had back at the morgue, coming to the same – correct – conclusions before he fell abruptly silent.

He released her hands and suddenly leaned closer, breaking eye contact to nuzzle the side of her neck. Scenting her, she supposed; Vampires had much stronger senses of smell than Humans, and breathing in a potential partner's musk was part of their mating ritual.

_Mating ritual_. Oh, God, had she just thought that? Surely she was wrong about this, about what was happening here...

No. Not wrong. That was definitely a tongue she felt sliding along her neck, and lips, and his hands were on her shoulders, pulling her against the firm length of his body. Vampires had cooler body temperatures than Humans; they took about two breaths a minute; their hearts beat at roughly a quarter of the speed of a Human heart; and the blood that flowed through their veins was thicker and darker than Human blood, but it performed the same function, brought about the same result.

Such as the heated erection she felt against her midsection as he slid his hands behind her back and brought his lips to hers for a searing, forceful kiss.

Molly found herself responding enthusiastically; her nipples hardened as they pressed against his body; her hands slid up the smooth expanse of his chest, resting briefly on the back of his neck before raising up to tangle themselves in his hair. The sheer sensuality of the moment threatened to overwhelm her; she gasped and pulled her mouth away from his for a brief moment...

And found herself suddenly alone in the room.

Sherlock had vanished with Vampire speed to who-knew-where, and she had no idea what had just happened – or what she was supposed to do now.


	4. Rock and a Hard Place

This was not supposed to be happening. Sherlock paced the rooftop of 221, staring unseeingly into the darkness that hid very little from a Vampire's view.

He'd worked very hard at keeping people – Humans and Vampires alike – away from him. He'd always believed it kept him safe, kept _them_ safe. Recent circumstances had started to alter that perception on his part; he'd actually formed cordial relationships with the Humans he worked with at New Scotland Yard, most notably Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and a former Army doctor named John Watson who'd been retained as an on-call coroner working directly for NSY rather than at one of the hospitals.

Unlike the young woman currently occupying his flat – and his thoughts – John went to crime scenes and was, if not entirely at ease around Vampires, he was at least comfortable working with Sherlock now that they'd known each other for almost three years. He even hoped that one day the doctor and the Detective Inspector would trust him enough to let him help with their efforts to overthrow the existing order in favor of something a bit more balanced.

Like himself, they dreamed of the day when Humans and Vampires might find some way to co-exist. After all, Vampires didn't need to drain a Human of their blood to feed, and there were actually many Humans who enjoyed being fed from. And not just the ones who'd been brainwashed into believing it their duty, either.

Then again, there were others who would rather die than allow themselves to be used as a food source for their so-called lords and masters. His 'guest', he suspected, fell squarely in the middle, where most of humanity existed: neither craving the thrill of being bitten nor willing to kill themselves rather than submit.

He blew out an impatient breath, raking his fingers through his hair as his pacing increased in speed. He'd managed to survive as long as he had without taking any sort of slave or mate, and now his brother, in one simple move, had forced him into accepting a woman who was meant to be both.

The question was, what exactly was he going to do about it?

His rock-hard prick told him quite plainly what his body, his transport, wanted from her. Ever since he'd scented her when she'd first been escorted into his flat by his brother and his 'PA', as he preferred to call the woman known only as Anthea, he'd felt an inexplicable pull toward her. He'd seen no details other than the top of her head when she'd exited his brother's black nondescript government car, but even that brief glimpse had stirred...something. Something that had caused him to kiss her only moment earlier.

Well. More than moments, actually; now that he allowed himself to notice the world outside his mind, he realized he'd been on the roof for very nearly a half an hour. Far too long to leave her alone in his flat, wondering about his motives for abandoning her so suddenly. Was she still standing where he'd left her, too terrified to move lest he punish her for doing so?

With an internal curse, he loped back to the iron ladder that allowed access to the roof. Even if she had no desire to become his mate (although her own reactions appeared to mirror his, something to be investigated as soon as feasible), her life was still at stake. If he didn't do as Myrcoft demanded of him, his brother wouldn't hesitate to rip her throat out and leave her body at Sherlock's feet.

That, he vowed, was a fate he'd never allow to befall her.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Wherever he'd vanished to, Sherlock – Master Holmes, she would have to be very careful to use his proper title or else potentially face further punishment – didn't return for half an hour. During that time Molly remained standing in the same place, her clothing piled on the floor, not daring to so much as throw her jacket around her shoulders without permission.

All the while her mind kept chasing itself in circles, wondering alternately why he'd kissed her and why he'd so abruptly pulled away. Especially when it was clear he felt some sort of attraction to her...but why? There was nothing special about her; she wasn't beautiful, not in the conventional sense, certainly not in a way most vampires defined beauty. She'd spent her entire life attempting to be the opposite of the type that normally attracted sexual attention from the Masters, and yet here she was, lusting after one of them herself.

When Sherlock did show up, simply appearing the way Vampires could when they felt like moving at their fastest speed, she cried out in startlement, then bit her lip and hugged her arms to her chest to try and control her renewed shivers. This time they were as much from cold as fear; one of the reasons she'd covered her chest was a futile attempt to keep Master Sherlock from noticing her erect and aching nipples.

He razed her with another one of those appraising glances, head to foot, then reached down and picked up her jacket, tossing it over her shoulders without comment. “Pick up your belongings and come with me,” he ordered, turning and stalking toward the hallway at the back of the flat.

Molly did as he ordered, plucking up the courage to ask: “W-where are you taking me? M-master Holmes,” she remembered to add. If she was to be a member of his household she had to learn the boundaries of what he would and would not allow.

He whirled as soon as the last words left her lips, glaring at her so harshly that she stumbled to a stop, clutching her clothes and purse to her chest in renewed terror. Her nervous system was going to collapse soon if her emotions kept spiking up and down so severely.

“My name is Sherlock,” the Vampire said as he continued to glower at her. “I would prefer to be addressed that way unless,” he added with what appeared to be a great deal of reluctance, “we are in the presence of other Vampires. It wouldn't go well for either of us if I allowed any sort of familiarity amongst others of my kind.”

His ire – and arousal – seemed to have dampened, although he still didn't appear anywhere close to happy. Molly simply nodded, then resumed following him down the dimly-lit hallway.

He stopped outside a door, pushing it open and indicating that she should look inside. “Bathroom,” he said succinctly. “I never use it so it will require a thorough cleaning. I'll set up accounts for you to access so you can purchase whatever it is you'll need. Food, too,” he added as an afterthought, frowning. “There isn't any in the flat but I'm sure my housekeeper – her name is Mrs. Hudson, I'll introduce you when she gets back tomorrow – has something downstairs. I'll take a look.”

“I'm – not really hungry,” Molly ventured, emboldened by his puzzling behavior – and by the memory of the searing kiss they’d shared, the one he was now acting as if it had never happened. He acted and spoke like no other Vampire she'd ever interacted with; most would have a servant showing her around, or simply expect her to learn things on her own with no direction from them. 

Sherlock's frown deepened as he trained his disconcerting gaze on her face once more. “Fine,” he said curtly, then turned and headed for the door at the end of the hall, which ended at a staircase. He jerked his chin toward it. “I'll have to move some things around, but you'll need a place to store your belongings once they arrive.” He hesitated, seemed about to add something, then apparently changed his mind. Instead, he reached for the door opposite the bathroom and jerked it open, indicating that Molly should precede him into the room.

“My bedroom. Ours now, I suppose.”

Any hope that his abrupt leave-taking and once-again cool demeanor meant that she was to be spared the humiliation of being forced into a life of sexual slavery ( _not that it would be all that difficult a burden to bear with this particular Vampire_ , part of her traitorous mind whispered) died with those indifferently spoken words.

When he fell silent after essentially sealing her fate, Molly forced herself to focus on the room in front of her, shoving her panic and fear and (how was such a thing even possible under these circumstances) desire into the back of her mind. There was no way to slow the pounding of her heart or keep her breaths even and calm, but she tried anyway as she took in what details she could from the meager light spilling in from the hallway.

It was nothing like what she'd imagined a Vampire's bedroom would look – not that she spent a great deal of time doing so, but considering who'd been running the world for more than half her life, she'd have been hard-pressed to avoid thinking about it at all. For one thing, it was small, not much larger than the one in her own flat – former flat, she reminded herself with a pang of near-grief. Oh, not for the flat itself, but for the limited freedom and life it represented. A life no longer her own. At least Sherlock was going to allow her to keep Toby; she'd have to make sure and set up his litter box in the bathroom and keep it scrupulously clean.

Aside from a dresser, a wardrobe, a single chair by the door, and the bed, there didn’t appear to be anything else in the room. The wall appeared bare of decorations and there were no rugs on the hardwood floor beneath her feet. The windows featured the ubiquitous heavy metal shutters and blackout curtains – the one thing the myths got right was that Vampires burned to a pile of ashes under the direct rays of the sun – both currently open, as was the window itself, to allow the cool night breeze into the room.

Molly shivered as she felt the wind on her exposed skin, jacket or no jacket, and Sherlock must have noticed because suddenly he was in the room, pulling the window down and slamming it shut. “Get under the covers,” he ordered, his voice suddenly rough with some unnamed emotion, eyes glittering eerily blue-gold in the darkness. 

Molly obeyed, a lifetime of ingrained obedience to any Vampire’s command causing her to drop her belongings onto the floor and scramble beneath the covers before she was fully aware of doing so.

She watched through wary eyes as Sherlock moved away from the window, coming to a stop only when he reached his dresser. He leaned against it and continued to regard her in silence for a few minutes longer before once again speaking, abruptly and without preamble. “My brother thinks I'm still too close to my humanity. He's been trying for years to force me into taking a personal slave, but not just a slave, oh, that isn't enough for Mycroft.”

He began to pace, and Molly was surprised to hear bitterness in his voice as the words poured out of him. “Taking a slave, I could easily just use that as a cover, easy enough to fake brutality in public but revert to form once in private. That's why he brought you here – what is your name?” He stopped pacing, his movements having brought him close to the head of the bed and she gazed into the sapphiric glitter of his eyes as he peered into her face.

“M-molly,” she replied with a stammer. “Molly Hooper.”

“Sherlock Holmes, as you've undoubtedly worked out for yourself by now. Charmed,” he replied as he resumed pacing, moving in short, agitated steps from the window to the foot of the bed, past it to the chair by the door and back again. “It's why he brought you here, Molly,” he said, repeating his previous words but with what she could only construe as the added courtesy of tacking on her name. “He wants me to use you, to Mark you and undoubtedly get you with child. Visible signs of my ownership,” he added, practically spitting out the last word, distaste clear in his voice.

All warmth drained from her face at that thought of being forced to produce offspring that neither parent, it seemed, were interested in producing. Yes, she'd thought about having children someday – but _Human_ children, not half-breed Nosferatu. Even with this Vampire, whom she could still feel her body aching to touch.

While her mind stuttered over the information she'd just been given, Sherlock had continued speaking. Oh, wait, no he was asking her something – oh, God, was she going to have to ask him to repeat himself? As if today hadn't been filled with enough mistakes on her part...

Either Sherlock hadn't actually asked or else he was continuing to behave like the most atypical Vampire she'd ever interacted with, because when he spoke again it was to ask: “What is your reproductive status, Molly?”

“T-temporary birth control implant,” she stuttered in response.

Although she didn’t see him move, suddenly the side of the bed sagged beneath Sherlock's weight, and she felt as much as saw him peering intently at her. He sighed, and she had the impression he was running his hand through that gorgeous dark hair of his. “Of course you're cleared for eventual procreation,” he muttered, sounding resigned. “Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way.”

Another sigh came from the darkness, this time close enough for Molly to feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. “If I know my dear brother – and believe me when I say I know no one better – there will be an appointment set up for you at the nearest fertility clinic within the next few days, during which your general health will be assessed and your birth control implant removed.”

Molly couldn't help the shiver that ran over her form at Sherlock's matter-of-fact words; from what she'd seen and experienced of his brother, she wouldn't put any of it past him. He obviously had plans for his younger brother, plans in which she figured prominently; the only question was, why? Why her, and why was Lord Holmes – Mycroft – so determined to make Sherlock do something he so clearly didn't wish to do?

She only realized she'd voiced her questions aloud when Sherlock responded to her words. “Well reasoned, Molly. At least Mycroft picked a woman of acceptable intelligence as well as acceptable attractiveness.”

Molly blinked; had Sherlock just called her attractive? And intelligent?

She couldn't help blushing, partly in embarrassment and partly out of some weird sense of pride. Again, the thought that Sherlock might somehow be manipulating or at least affecting her emotional state flitted through her mind. Again, she rejected it. If he could control her that well she'd already have done whatever it was he wanted her to do.

Or rather, whatever his _brother_ wanted her to do. Which Sherlock had already spelled out.

Which meant... “Sherlock?” she ventured to ask as he made no move to either leave her be or...well, _not_ leave her be.

Her response came in the form of another sigh as Sherlock leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers. “Yes, Molly, I am going to do as my brother wants, as I have no wish to be the cause of your death. And yes, I said you were attractive and intelligent and I meant both compliments. Although I am indeed doing this against my will, I am also attracted enough to you that it will not be as much of a chore as it might have been otherwise.” She felt rather than saw the smile as he brushed his lips against her cheek and added: “And I have no doubts as to your attraction to me, since you’ve smelled of more want than fear ever since I kissed you.”

She had no response for that, knowing it to be true, feeling a thrill course through her as he continued to ghost his lips over the soft flesh of her face and neck, ending at her throat, grazing it with his teeth. Teeth which now included fangs that had elongated into feeding mode, although she suspected he had no need for nourishment at the moment.

No, he’d said his brother wanted him to Mark her. And in order to save her life, he was going to do just that.

She couldn’t decide whether the idea of being so Marked by Sherlock Holmes was more terrifying – or more arousing.


	5. Seduction of the Innocent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Sex and Biting and Really Bloody, Painful Biting at the end (aka 'Marking').
> 
> This story is going to be much darker than either of my previous Vamp!lock one shots, in case you didn't already get that. Marking is not some delicate little nibble on the neck, so consider yourselves warned. But everything leading up to that moment is just pure, smutty goodness, LOL.

Molly was frightened; he could practically taste the fear oozing from her pores as he scraped just the tips of his fangs across her throat, not enough to draw blood but enough to make his intentions clear. Her pulse was throbbing, the blood speeding through her veins, but overriding the fear, even now, was the heady scent of her arousal. If he brushed his fingers across her core, he found himself thinking, would she already be wet for him? His nostrils flared a bit as he scented her, and he smiled as her musk wafted upwards. Oh yes, she would be more than ready for him when the time came to sink his cock deep, deep inside her. She would moan and gasp his name as he sank his fangs into her neck and pressed his fingers into her, then moan even louder when he licked the taste of her sex off his fingers, mixing it with her blood in a cocktail he knew from past experience could be as heady as any Human drug he'd ever sampled.

It was time, he decided, to stop thinking about what he wanted to do to this woman, and to simply...do it.

He'd grasped her arms at some point, although he couldn't say for sure when he'd done so, and pulled her half onto his lap as he dragged his tongue across her throat, pausing where her pulse beat the strongest. “I'm going to bite you, Molly,” he murmured against her throat, feeling a shiver go over her body as he spoke. But she wasn't fighting him, wasn't resisting at all; in fact, there was a thrumming eagerness he felt in every muscle, as if she were fighting the urge to do something. But not, he knew, to push him away. “You can touch me, you know,” he added, pulling his face up from her neck and allowing her to see his fangs fully extended. The pale light streaming through his window should ensure she could see the whiteness against his lips.

She raised one hand and rested it on his shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly in the air as she hesitated. When she met his eyes and bit her lip nervously, he understood what it was she wanted to do – but was too afraid to ask. He gently reached out and took her wrist in one hand, then brought it closer to his mouth. With his other hand he folded her fingers so that she was making the victory sign, then pressed those two fingers against his fangs, allowing her to touch them as she so obviously wanted to.

A slight intake of breath was the only sound she made as the tips of her fingers made contact with the ivory points, and he watched as her eyes widened and then narrowed in concentration. She leaned forward a bit, as if she'd never seen a pair of fangs up close before – which, most likely, she never had, if the pristine condition of her lovely neck was anything to go by.

It was rare, these days, to see a Human – especially an attractive Human female such as Molly – without so much as a single tiny scar marring their flesh. He wondered if the rest of her body was so untouched, and felt himself hardening further at the thought of being the first to pierce her flesh, to bite her and drink in her blood.

A slight gasp from her lips told him that his eyes had flooded with blood as his arousal increased, coloring the lenses, deepening the natural blue-green of his irises, as he knew from catching sight of his reflection in the past, to a dark purple. Molly pulled her fingers away from his mouth and reached up to tentatively stroke them through his hair, rubbing gently at his scalp and pulling a surprised murmur of approval from him. She grew bolder as he remained passive in her grasp, running her fingers over his shoulders and down his chest. He moaned a bit as her palms scraped over his nipples – they'd always been far too sensitive – and even louder as she allowed her hands to drift to his crotch and the hot bulge of his erection.

At that point he was as incapable of remaining unmoving as he was of existing on anything but blood; he heard her gasp again as he lowered his mouth to hers for a forceful, demanding kiss. The tips of his fangs pierced her tongue as it darted past his lips; the sweet taste of her blood filled his mouth, and all ability to reason, to think clearly, was entirely lost. He pulled himself off her only long enough to shed himself of his clothing, nimble fingers reaching out to undo the front-clasp on her brassiere after she'd tugged her camisole over her head. He tossed both articles of clothing to the floor before once again covering her body with his, groaning at the feel of her taut nipples against the cool flesh of his chest.

Within seconds he'd sunk his fangs into her throat and was greedily sucking down her hot, sweet blood.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

When Molly's fingers began exploring Sherlock's lean, muscular frame, she felt her fear sliding from her, and her curiosity about the Vampire who was about to Mark and claim her for his own increasing. Not simply scientific curiosity, either, although she tried at first to tell herself that was all it was; a chance for her to study one of the 'Masters' up close, in an intimate fashion. To explore the differences and similarities there might be between Humans and Vampires, something the pathologist in her was very interested in, although she'd never allowed herself to indulge such an interest in the past.

No, that would be far too dangerous; as soon as anyone, Human or Vampire, discovered that she was researching anything as forbidden as Vampire biology, she would become a person of interest herself, marked by one side as a possible recruit to a dangerous – and ultimately futile – cause, or by the other as a threat to be eliminated.

The irony, of course, was that she'd so carefully avoided giving any appearance of sympathy to either side, yet had landed in her present position in spite of that care. A wry smile curved her lips as she considered her mind's choice of words; her right hand was still pressed against Sherlock's chest while her left had moved downward, coming to rest on the hard bulge of his erection, which – along with his red-flooded eyes – was a very tangible sign that he wasn't simply giving lip service to his brother's demands. What that meant, Molly wasn't entirely sure. Nor was she sure she wanted to know.

Sherlock gave a groan before his lips suddenly claimed hers, stilling her thoughts, and in spite of the jab of pain she felt when his fangs pierced the tip of her tongue as she thoughtlessly plunged it into his mouth, she finally acknowledged that there was nothing scientific about her curiosity at all. This interaction was hardly an experiment, and although the two of them had been coerced into this relationship, it was, indeed, a relationship. One she was going to be entangled in for the remainder of her days.

As Sherlock began shedding his clothing – as she all-too-eagerly joined him – she found herself somewhat troubled by the fact that such a stark reality...did not trouble her. Not at this moment, anyway, when Sherlock's mouth withdrew from hers only long enough for him to dislodge his fangs, and then eagerly lap his tongue against hers, taking in her blood, swallowing it down before he finally moved his mouth to the side of her neck.

A shiver went over her frame, and she could feel her nipples puckering as they rubbed up against the cooler flesh of his smooth, muscular chest. She pictured his mouth suckling the tight nubs, and a groan of want escaped her before she could stop it, her hands moving to clutch at his arms as he pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses along the length of her carotid artery.

When she he drew his head back, eyes blazing with sapphire and gold highlights even through the redness, she had barely enough time to recognize what was happening before he'd darted his head forward and embedded his fangs in her throat.

The pain lasted less than an eyeblink; she'd heard it speculated (but never proven) that Vampire saliva contained some form of topical anesthetic as well as a soporific, an evolutionary advantage to keep prey immobilized after being bitten. The intensely sexual response many had to the bites were rumored to be either the same sort of biochemical interaction (if the Vampire was aroused as well as the victim/donor, it was said to be even more intense) or some kind of psychic ability, similar to the ones many older Vampires eventually manifested.

Either way, Molly could now personally attest to just how fucking incredible it felt to be bitten by a Vampire that was sexually aroused. It was as if his mouth were attached to her cunt instead of her throat; she could feel the growing dampness between her legs, the rising rippling in her abdomen that usually signaled the onset of orgasm, and before she knew it she was gasping and clutching him closer, begging him not to stop as she wreathed her legs around his waist and ground her center against his heated shaft.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Self awareness returned to Sherlock in a rush as soon as he felt Molly's soft, warm body go rigid beneath his. The scent of her sex became overpowering as she orgasmed, her legs clamping around his body, and he pulled his mouth away from her throat in order to gaze down at her in a mixture of smug satisfaction that was purely male ( _he'd_ done this to her, turned her into an incoherent mess just by drinking her blood) and amazement that he'd had so powerful an effect on her. Especially considering the fact that he'd deliberately refrained from using any of the usual Vampiric lures on her. No, whatever this was between the two of them – and yes, he reluctantly concluded, it was affecting him as well – had nothing to do with anything as simple or straightforward as pheromones or emotional manipulation or even lust.

Whatever it was, however, would have to be investigated when he had two functioning brain cells to rub together. Preferably after he'd given her another orgasm, this one in the more traditional manner. “Molly, I need to be inside you,” he growled, raising his body up just enough to reach down between them and take himself in hand. “I know you're ready for me,” he said, pressing the head of his cock against her moisture-slicked entrance. “I know you want me as much as I want you. Say it, Molly,” he commanded, not sure why he needed to hear it but knowing that he would only continue if she told him.

“I want you,” she whimpered obediently, thrusting her hips upward so that his cock once again rubbed against her wetness. “Please, Sherlock...”

He was inside her as soon as the syllables forming his name left her lips, gliding smoothly, deeply, with no false starts or hesitations. Her internal muscles gripped him tightly, but they were a good fit – a perfect fit, he concluded. As if they were made solely for one another.

He would consider the implications of that – and of everything else that had happened so far this evening – later. Right now he was far too busy turning Molly Hooper into a moaning, writhing mess, waiting until she was crying out with her second climax before once again sinking his fangs into her throat.

Her reaction to his bite was extremely gratifying; even as he continued to piston his hips, driving his prick deep, deep inside her while his mouth worked her throat, she cried out his name, fingernails digging wildly into his scalp as her cresting orgasm seemed to intensify and continue far longer than such usually did.

_Now,_ some deeply primal part of him hissed within his mind, through the haze of his own impending orgasm. _Mark her, make her yours._

_NOW._

Molly cried out again as Sherlock snarled her name, withdrawing his fangs only to dig them back into her throat, mindless in the mutual throes of passion and bloodlust as his orgasm finally overtook him. This time, however, her cries were of pain, as he ripped at her throat, not content to simply pierce her flesh, overwhelmed by the instincts their fierce coupling had raised within him, instincts he'd never allowed himself to give into ever before. He'd forgotten how raw and primal Marking someone was; the thin veneer of civilization fell away in response to base needs, and the predator within Sherlock exulted at the taste of Molly's flesh between his teeth, the feel of her blood not only in his mouth but dribbling down his chin and smearing itself over their joined torsos.

Her hands had gone from pulling him closer to futilely attempting to tug his head away from her throat, but he ignored her movements as he ignored her cries of pain and pleas for him to stop. He'd warned her, told her he was going to do as Mycroft insisted and Mark her as his own, and right now there was no way he could stop himself even if he tried. His inner predator, the dark, savage part of his nature that he'd worked so hard to suppress, had taken control, and he was powerless to stop it.

Only when Molly fell silent and slumped in his hold did he finally release her, pulling his head up and rubbing his hand across his chin, absently licking the blood from his fingers as he stared down at her unconscious form. He gently settled her down so that her head rested on his now-bloodstained pillow, and he peered down at her throat as reason returned to his mind.

He'd done it. He'd Marked her, made her his. The wound on her neck would take weeks to heal, even if antibiotic creams could be applied. Which, in order to make the Mark permanent, couldn't happen. Although his first thought upon regaining control of his mind was to bandage her, staunch the bleeding, he held off, knowing that it had to bleed long enough for his saliva, with its healing properties, to be cleared from the gash he'd opened on her neck.

He felt sick as he stared down at her, repulsed by what he'd done. Even knowing it was the only way to save her life – that his brother would ruthlessly kill her if Sherlock didn't Mark her in this manner – didn't help, and never would. He wondered how she would feel once she woke up; would she hate him, fear him, be disgusted and horrified by his actions?

He couldn't blame her if she did; after all, he loathed this aspect of his nature, had actively avoided it not only because of the emotional connection Marking could sometimes forge, but also because it symbolized what he saw as the worst aspects of vampirism: violence and the compulsion to bind someone into virtual slavery, to use them against their will, doing physical damage to the body and scarring the mind and heart as well as the body. All things he abhorred and yet here he was, proving himself just as much a slave to his nature as anyone who'd ever been Turned.

The only positives were that Molly would, indeed, be free of the threat Mycroft had levied against her, and that other Vampires would be warned away, knowing that she belonged to a member of a powerful clan. It would no doubt be similar to the Marks Mycroft had left on his slaves – the man had a virtual harem, his brother remembered in disgust. In spite of what he was, Sherlock had always been disdainful of the supernatural, rightly, to his mind, relegating most of it to the realm of superstition, but there were certain aspects of it that could not be ignored.

Such as the way the Mark would bear his initials, in monogram form, once it had finished forming. That was no accident of nature, no logical result of the pattern his fangs had torn into Molly's throat. No, the reddened flesh would bear the white letters “SVH” – Sherlock Vernet Holmes – for the rest of her life.

With a vague feeling of surprise, he realized that he hoped she wouldn't hate him for that same length of time.


	6. I Don't Hate You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Marking.

Molly gave a soft groan as she tried to turn her head, only to be stopped by someone's hand pressing her back against the pillow she rested on. Her mind was fuzzy, as if she'd gone out drinking and taken too much, but she knew better than that, hadn't done such a foolish thing since her first year at uni. Drinking in public was tantamount to asking for a Vampire to bite you.

A Vampire. Biting. Her neck…Molly’s eyes flew open as memory came rushing back in a flood. Her neck hurt, a throbbing ache like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life, and she lifted her hand (shaking, paler than normal) in an automatic gesture of exploration. Another hand, paler even than her own, stopped the movement, gently tugging her fingers away from the wound. 

“It’s bandaged, but if you touch it you’ll cause yourself more pain to no good purpose,” Sherlock said, his voice remote, as if he held no personal interest in what he was telling her. “It’s all part of the process,” he continued, while Molly fought to read the expression on his face in the continued darkness of the room. “In order for the Mark to fully take no medication can be allowed, either externally on the wound itself or taken internally for the pain. I’m…sorry.”

With those last two words, finally, a hint of emotion – more than a hint. Regret, Molly thought. _Sincere_ regret. And he seemed genuinely concerned about the pain she was feeling, both emotions she never would have expected a Vampire to express. It seemed the longer she knew Sherlock – had it really been less than a day? – the more he managed to surprise her. “It's all right,” she found herself saying wincing a bit at the pain on the side of her neck.

Sherlock obviously saw the wince, the fleeting expression of pain on her face; even in the continuing darkness of the room his reaction was clear; a flinch away from her, then that preternatural stillness all Vampires managed so effortlessly. As clearly as if he'd announced it, she could tell he intended to flee, and did the only thing she could think of to stop him, knowing it for nothing more than a gesture but one she felt compelled to make.

She reached out and took his hand in hers. Gripped it as tightly as she could, squeezing it reassuringly before raising it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. He'd hurt her, yes, but he'd done it to save her life, and she would never forget that, no matter what sort of life she found herself living now. 

His hand remained very still within her grasp, the slight chill in his flesh slowly dissipating the longer she held him. Finally he moved, rubbing his thumb over hers before gently disentangling his hand from hers and clearing his throat in a very human manner. “I've brought you some juice from Mrs. Hudson's flat, and a straw,” he said, gesturing toward the nightstand. Molly carefully turned her head, squinting in the darkness, groping with one hand for the offered drink. Sherlock's hand was there ahead of hers, bringing the cup to her lips and helping her sit up enough to drink it. She was touched by the way he seemed to hover so helplessly around her, as if he thought he should be doing more for her.

“Would it be all right...I mean, would you mind if we had a light in here?” Molly asked, hesitant to ask favors even knowing this Vampire – who now owned her in the eyes of law, as her aching throat reminded her – was unlike any other she’d ever met. Especially his brother, the one who’d delighted in placing her in this exact situation. She shivered, hoping she wouldn’t have to ever meet him again.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock said, “Mycroft rarely visits here. And when he does, I do my best to ensure that those visits are kept as brief as possible. Your presence here and his own role in forcing the issue between us will ensure that I am even more vigilant in keeping him out of my life.”

Then he rose to his feet, vanishing from her side as if teleported, leaving her holding the cup in her trembling hands. He returned moments later, carrying something bulky which turned out to be a lamp with a rather alarming pink, fringed shade over the bulb. “Nicked it from Mrs. Hudson's flat,” he announced proudly as he placed on the bed-side table and plugged it in. After flicking it on he settled on the edge of the bed and once again turned his gorgeous blue-green eyes her way. 

“Won't she miss it?” Molly tried to protest, but Sherlock waved her concerns away.

“I'll buy her a new one. Or buy you a different one. Well, I suppose I'll let you do the buying since Vampires aren't supposed to concern themselves with such trivial matters.” That last was spoken with an unmistakable air of contempt for his own kind, which Molly easily deduced – and which further eased her concerns regarding her future. “And you'll have to make sure to only make purchases at places Mrs. Hudson recommends,” he added, peering closely at her. She subconsciously moved back; not far, not with the pillows and headboard behind her, but enough for him to notice and frown. “Contrary to popular belief, not all Vampires are oblivious to the fact that the Humans they Mark are treated differently by other Humans. I don't want this...situation...to put you out any more than it has to.”

He was still showing what appeared to be genuine concern for her, and she still didn't quite understand it. It was confusing; bad enough her entire world had been turned upside down by this man's brother; didn't he realize how disorienting it was for him to treat her like he actually cared about her, about the pain and emotional distress she was in?

Then again, there was something to be said for being fussed over like this; she hadn't had anyone looking out for her since her parents had died. And for someone who was technically the enemy, she felt incredibly comfortable with Sherlock, and not just the sexual pull she'd felt the moment she laid eyes on him.

“Normally I’m perfectly indifferent to how others perceive me, Molly, but I just wanted to say that….I hope you don’t hate me for this,” he said, the last words coming out in a rush.

“You saved my life,” she said simply. “Or would your brother not have killed me like he said he would?”

“Oh, he would have done it, absolutely,” Sherlock replied, with no hesitation. “Or had Anthea do it for him. So yes, I suppose if you want to look at it that way, you could say I…”

She silenced him by pressing her fingers to his lips, an act of daring she’d never have predicted herself capable of making. “Thank you for saving my life. I don’t hate you. But I am a bit knackered; do you mind…would it be all right if I tried to get some sleep now?”

He nodded and rose to his feet. God, he was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him, and Molly wondered if she was letting her attraction to him cloud her judgement. Then she thought of Mycroft’s cold blue eyes, the equally cold gaze of his PA, and told herself to stop fretting over it. She belonged to this Vampire now, and whether there was some actual connection between them, the way she thought there was, or whether it was purely sexual, didn’t matter. 

Her last thought before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep, was to wonder what fate had in store for her next.


	7. Day One of a New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before, with tea and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to broomclosetkink for looking this over for me and reassuring me that Mrs. Hudson isn't OOC for this AU I've created. :)

Molly turned and stretched a bit, then froze as she felt a foreign presence by her side. Who…how…

Oh. Right. Sherlock Holmes. The Vampire she now belonged to, the one who’d Marked her, as the pain in her throat reminded her. She turned carefully to look at him in the dim light of the lamp he’d left burning, wondering how long she’d slept, but knowing it had to be morning if he was asleep.

The sound of ticking caught her attention, and she reluctantly removed her eyes from Sherlock’s unconscious form to see that at some point he’d added an old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand next to the lamp. He’d probably appropriated that from his housekeeper as well, but Molly found it extremely telling that he’d thought to provide it in the first place, no matter where he’d gotten it from. After all, Vampires had no need for alarm clocks, since their bodies were uniquely synched to the rising and setting of the sun.

One of the few absolutely proven facts about Vampires that they hadn’t been able to keep Humans from knowing was how vulnerable they were in the daylight. The movies had got that part absolutely right; Vampires went up in flames when directly touched by sunlight, burning like torches until nothing but ash was left. Not only that, but the sun seemed to have a strong soporific effect on them as well, based on how long it had been since they’d been Turned. The younger the Vampire, the stronger the effect.

These two facts made them incredibly vulnerable, of course; all it would take for Molly to kill Sherlock, for example, would be for her to tear down the blackout curtains, wrench open the shutters on his bedroom window, and let the daylight stream into the room. He would smolder and sizzle and eventually burst into flames, especially if she removed the covers from his body so there was nothing between him and the sunlight but whatever clothing he was currently wearing.

“Don’t even think about it, sweetheart.”

Gasping, Molly turned her head – flinching and gritting her teeth at the second explosion of pain from her wounded throat – to see who had spoken.

There was a man leaning against the doorframe to the bedroom, one Molly had never seen before, clad all in black and picking his nails with the tip of a very sharp-looking dagger. Tall, gangly-looking, with a scraggly beard and rather tired eyes. “Who, who are you?” she asked, flinching a bit as Sherlock mumbled something in his sleep and shifted slightly. Just enough to press his forehead up against her shoulder. “And don’t even think about what?” Molly continued with a bit of false bravado when the stranger remained silent.

He nodded at Sherlock, then glanced at the windows. “Openin’ the windows up and letttin’ ‘im burn,” he said, flashing her a smile that revealed just enough fang to make her flinch. No vampire could be _that_ conscious during the daytime, so he had to be one of the half-breeds – Bloods, they called themselves, she remembered, although no Humans called them that. “Mr. ‘Olmes mayn’t be your cup o’ tea, sweetheart, but he’s a good man and killin’ him would be a mistake.” His smile became decidedly unfriendly and his fangs more visible as he added, “Oh, and they call me the Wig…”

An unexpected sound from Sherlock interrupted them, a derisive snort of what Molly cautiously decided was laughter. “No they don’t,” he mumbled.

Molly stared at him; his eyes were still closed, his breathing still virtually undetectable, yet he was clearly awake enough to understand the bizarre conversation. She tucked that fact carefully away in her mind; Sherlock Holmes had been a Vampire long enough that he didn’t turn into a virtual corpse during the daytime. Important or not, it was one more fact than she’d had before.

“Yeah, well, they call me Wiggy,” the stranger tried again, seeming a bit disconcerted as well, although he kept his gaze firmly fixed on Molly.

“Nope,” Sherlock, mumbled, clearly popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word. Molly bit back the urge to giggle at the byplay; she had the feeling that her extreme emotional swings this morning were something she was going to be suffering for a while.

‘The Wig’ or ‘Wiggy’ or whoever the hell he was huffed impatiently. “Yeah, right, Billy Wiggins then, but no matter what they call me, if you offed Mr. ‘Olmes, I’d still ‘ave to kill you, to avenge him and all. I mean, yeah, I’d get all his stuff if he died…”

“No you wouldn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. Molly glanced down and saw that his eyes were only barely open now, the lids drooping back down as she watched. His hold on her tightened– when had he moved his hand so that it pressed against her abdomen? – and he nuzzled her shoulder a bit before slurring out, “Get Miss Hooper some breakfast, Billy, and make sure someone looks at her neck.” Then he apparently passed out again, leaving Molly feeling a bit dizzy…and not entirely from all the blood she’d lost the previous night.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

An hour later Molly found herself being fussed over by Sherlock’s Human housekeeper while Wiggins – who was apparently Sherlock’s daytime bodyguard, which made sense and was something she would have anticipated if her head wasn’t still spinning from the sudden turnaround in her life – hovered in the background as if unsure if it was safe to leave the two Humans alone together.

Mrs. Hudson, it would seem, had her own opinions on the matter; she turned on him after settling Molly (clad only in her underwear and one of Sherlock’s many dressing-gowns since her own clothing was currently in the wash) on the sofa with a breakfast tray, and snapped: “You know you’re supposed to be downstairs, Billy; Mr. Holmes knows he can trust me and obviously he’s Marked Miss Hooper, so she’s no danger to him, either. Now, shoo! You’ll need to let the doctor in when she gets here!”

Ducking his head and shuffling his feet a bit, Wiggins mumbled something about Humans not knowing their place that sounded very weak even to Molly’s ears, then ambled his way out of the flat and down the stairs, whistling an off-key rendition of a popular love song.

Once they were alone, Mrs. Hudson settled herself on one of the flat’s two chairs and gave Molly a motherly smile. “Well, now that we’ve some privacy, my dear, why don’t you tell me how you came to find yourself in this situation? Because I know Sherlock, and he once made a very serious vow never to do such a thing to anyone.”

Molly had no idea if she could trust this woman – who refused to answer any questions about herself “until I’ve gotten to know you a bit better, my dear” – but was of an age that meant she must have been allowed to live because of some specific usefulness to the Vampires. Molly’s own grandparents had thankfully passed away before the purges, and it was so rare to see a Human over the age of 50 that she couldn’t stop staring at the other woman, who only smiled tolerantly and indicated that Molly should start speaking.

After a moment’s hesitation, Molly did just that. After all, she had nothing to hide and no reason to hide it. So she explained the entire sordid affair, skimming over the night’s activities but seeing a knowing smile on Mrs. Hudson’s lips when she mumbled out that Sherlock had agreed to Mark her to save her life – and stressing that she didn’t blame him or hate him for doing so.

She wasn’t even sure why she told Mrs. Hudson that part of it; what did it matter how Molly felt about the Vampire to whom she was now tied for the rest of her life? Or rather, how she _didn’t_ feel, since she still wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him other than the fact that she didn’t hate him. 

“He’s a good man.”

Molly blinked and gave Mrs. Hudson a quizzical look. “Sorry?” she said, realizing she’d been somewhat lost in her thoughts and might have missed something the other woman had said.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson clarified, nodding toward the bedroom door, which was now closed and locked, with blackout curtains pulled tight over it as well even though the windows in the parlor were also shuttered and covered with blackout curtains. “He’s a good man.”

A good man. The very same words Wiggins had used to describe him – and not words Molly had expected to hear even once, let alone twice. The repetition caused her to pay even closer attention to Mrs. Hudson’s words than she would have otherwise. “He saved my life as well, once upon a time.” She sighed as if at the memory, while a fond smile played across her lips. “My husband had been Turned, you see, and he was determined to rid himself entirely of any reminders of his Human life – meaning me,” she added drily. “Sherlock stopped him, shipped him off to America, and had his people keep an eye on him. Ultimately he ran afoul of the local Vampires and ended up with his throat torn out, but that was bound to happen to him sooner or later.” She leaned forward and said in a confidential whisper, “He really wasn’t a very nice man even when he was Human.”

“Oh,” was all Molly could say to that surprising bit of information. Groping for something to add to that, she tried, “So, um, you must be very fond of him, Sherlock, I mean. Like a sort of son to you, is he?”

Mrs. Hudson snickered a bit at that. “Oh, yes, well, I suppose so now that I’m so much older, but at the time?” She shook her head and winked. “I was only twenty, Miss Hooper, and quite a looker if I do say so myself. Sherlock and I had a much more, hmm, how should I put it? _Physical_ relationship back then.”

“Oh,” Molly said weakly, hating that she was repeating herself, hating how inarticulate she was, but honestly, what else was there to say?

A sudden fear gripped her; was this woman jealous of her, was she planning to get rid of a romantic rival? It wasn’t unheard of, for the vassals loyal to a Vampire to quietly get rid of any Humans they felt to be a threat!

Mrs. Hudson apparently read Molly’s fear, because she leaned forward again, this time patting Molly’s hand consolingly. “Not to worry, dear; those feelings faded a long time ago, and honestly? It was really just sex between us. And gratitude on my part, of course, which I’ve never lost.” Her voice and expression hardened, and her grip on Molly’s hand tightened. “Which is why I’m going to tell you this, right now, so you know exactly where you stand: if you ever do anything to hurt Sherlock, even if he forbids us to harm you, which I’m sure he will when he wakes up this evening, Billy and I will make sure you pay. He saved Billy’s life as well, when he’d fallen into drug use and his Vampire father abandoned him. We’re both quite fiercely loyal, you see.” 

Molly snatched her hand away as Mrs. Hudson released her and once again relaxed in her chair with a friendly smile on her face. “I’m perfectly willing to believe you won’t do any such thing, of course, but you understand why I have to be cautious in this day and age.” She sighed, her smile vanishing into a melancholy frown. “I miss those days of blissful ignorance, really I do, but this is the world we live in now and all we can do is make the best of things. As long as you don’t betray Sherlock, you and I should get along quite well.”

As Molly continued to stare at her, Mrs. Hudson tutted and nodded at the breakfast tray still resting on Molly’s lap. “Eat up, my dear; you’ll need your strength while you recover from being Marked. Not everyone survives the process, you know.”

Those words, so casually spoken, sent a chill down Molly’s spine, and she nearly spilled the contents of the tray on her lap as she shuddered. “What, what do you mean?” she asked when she could finally speak, staring at the older woman in consternation. The threats she understood, of course she did; if Sherlock had saved Mrs. Hudson’s life and been her lover, then of course the other woman would be protective of him. But Molly had never heard about people not surviving the Marking process before; was Sherlock’s housekeeper-slash-guardian just trying to scare her?

Apparently not. “Oh, it’s true enough,” Mrs. Hudson said, sounding and looking sympathetic again, although Molly wasn’t sure if it was real or not. The older woman had made so many emotional turnarounds in the short time Molly had known her that it was impossible to tell how much of it was real and how much of it an act calculated to keep Molly exactly where she was: entirely off-balance and unsure of herself. “Dr. Morstan will tell you, just as soon as she gets here.” She nodded at the tray again, a bit more sharply this time. “I know you’ve been given quite a lot of information in a very short period of time and had your life entirely upset by Mycroft and Sherlock, but I insist that you eat every bite. You can’t be transfused until the Mark is healed.”

With that, she rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen, where Molly heard her fussing with the kettle and presumably getting herself a fresh cuppa to replace the one she’d let go cold while alternately comforting and scaring the shit out of 221B’s newest resident.

Ten minutes later Molly had managed to choke down her toast and eggs and a few bites of the sausage. Whatever else she was, Mrs. Hudson was an excellent cook, and Molly had always had a strong stomach even when her emotions were in as much upheaval as they currently were. She was sipping her second cup of tea – liberally laced with sugar and heavy cream at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence – when the sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted the two women to the arrival of a visitor.

“Oh, good, that’ll be Mary, she’s a dear, she’ll give you a good lookover and make sure you don’t suffer too much during the process!”

Molly just shook her head as Mrs. Hudson rose to her feet and opened the door to the flat, calling “Hoo hoo, Mary! So nice to see you again!” down the stairs. 

“Well, Alice, you’re well and truly down the rabbit hole, nothing to do but hold on and hope for the best,” she mumbled to herself before taking another sip and placing the cup back on the tray, mentally bracing herself for whatever happened next. Learning that being Marked wasn’t always successful – that she could actually die from the process! – was disturbing and frightening, to say the least, but she shoved her worries way, way down so she could concentrate on leaning whatever she could from this new visitor.

The woman who accompanied Mrs. Hudson into the flat was a petite blonde who didn’t look much taller than Molly, and was possibly ten years older than her, which would place her solidly in her middle thirties. Her hair was cut in a flattering bob and her blue eyes were warm and friendly. “Hullo, I’m Dr. Morstan, but you can call me Mary, please do, actually, it’s what I prefer, yeah?”

The friendly chatter helped relieve Molly’s nerves a bit, and she smiled tentatively at the doctor as she pulled out a stethoscope and sat on the edge of the low table. Molly had been about to set her tray there, and bit her lip uncertainly as she tried to figure out what to do with it. Mrs. Hudson, however, swooped in and took it up. “I’ll just clear this away for you and leave you to it. Give a shout if you need me, I’ll just be downstairs, Mary, dear, do stop by for a cuppa and a nice gossip before you go!” she added cheerfully, then vanished, closing the door behind her.

As soon as the older woman was gone Mary’s smile turned wry. “She can be a bit much, our Mrs. Hudson, but she means well. I’m sorry, I can tell she’s already frightened you, hasn’t she? Told you that Marking doesn’t always work out, did she?”

Molly started to nod, winced at the pain in her throat and croaked out a “Yeah” instead.

Dr. Morstan – Mary – put the stethoscope’s ear pieces in and indicated that Molly should sit up straight so she could listen to her heart and lungs. “It’s true, unfortunately,” she murmured in between directions to ‘turn this way’ and ‘raise your arms’ and ‘hmms’ which were all so reassuringly normal, exactly what Molly was used to hearing from a doctor, that she felt herself relaxing a bit more in spite of the disturbing reason for the examination in the first place. “About, oh, I’d say one in every hundred develops an infection that kills them if it isn’t treated in time. The unfortunate thing is, by the time we figure out it isn’t just the normal infections that develop when you leave a gash in a person’s neck untreated for several weeks, it’s usually too late to do anything about it.”

Her expression darkened a bit as she sat back and removed the earpieces, allowing the stethoscope to return to its place around her neck. “And of course our Lords and Masters don’t want any unsuccessful attempts advertised, so even if the infection were treated successfully, the victim usually doesn’t survive anyway, if you know what I mean,” she added darkly.

Molly shuddered. Oh yes, the doctor’s meaning was quite clear; dead men – and women – told no tales. “Then why work for them? Why not find a way to, to, I dunno, slip this information to a resistance group?” Molly blurted in astonishment. It wasn’t surprising to hear the bitterness in the other woman’s voice, but it was surprising that she expressed it so bluntly – while making a house call in a Vampire’s home to boot!

Mary smiled again, a rueful grin this time, and she shrugged. “I’m a bit too fond of my own skin to risk it, to be honest,” she replied. “As for why I work for them, well, that part’s easy; the money is excellent, and who better to look after the Humans in a Vampire’s household than another Human? The world is the way it is, Miss Hooper, and there isn’t much one person can do to change things.”

It was a cynical attitude, but one Molly completely understood. She herself was in no position to judge, considering she’d lived her life up until yesterday just trying to get by and keep herself from being noticed by either side of the ongoing struggle between Human rebels and the Vampires who quite literally ruled the world. She found herself liking the other woman, and since she doubted she’d be allowed to spend much time in the company of her few friends from her old life, she found herself hoping that the two of them might become friendly, if not friends. “Call me Molly,” she said, and Mary flashed her another one of her infectious smiles as she agreed to do so.

After examining the wound on Molly’s neck and rebandaging it, Mary advised Molly to follow Mrs. Hudson’s advice and eat well, keep her strength up, “and just try to live your life as best you can, under the circumstances,” was her concluding comment as she packed up her bag and got ready to leave. “I’ll be back every couple of days to check on you. But you can expect to develop a fever and I’m afraid the pain will get progressively worse as well. The only good news I can offer is that it’ll be all over one way or another in about three weeks.”

The reminder that her life could be at risk was a sobering one, but since there was literally nothing she could do about it – Mrs. Hudson had already informed her that there were no painkillers or antibiotic creams in the flat – she was able to put it aside and concentrate on more immediate concerns, after thanking Mary for her services. “Mrs. Hudson…is she…should I be…”

“Worried about her being jealous?” Mary asked with another one of her wry grins. Molly felt like an idiot for even asking; after all, she knew the doctor about as well as she knew the housekeeper, but something about Mary seemed so honest and forthright she couldn’t help but trust her. “Nah, Hudders is fine with Sherlock taking up with other women, even if it’s been a long time since he has, at least according to her.” She gave Molly a sly wink. “Don’t worry, she won’t try to knife you in your sleep…unless you do something against her precious Sherlock, of course. Then, all bets are off.” She hesitated, clearly wanting to ask something, and Molly spared her the trouble.

“It wasn’t our choice, this,” she said, raising her hand to indicate the wound in her throat. “His brother, he forced us both into it.” She gave Mary the abbreviated version of the previous night, again trying to skim over the incredibly good sex she and Sherlock had shared, but the doctor’s knowing looks said she knew exactly what had happened besides the bloodletting. “But I’m not…well, I can’t say I’m _happy_ ,” she concluded with an uncomfortable laugh, “but I’m not…entirely _unhappy_ , either, which is strange, considering.” Mary remained silent while Molly struggled to find the right words to describe her confused feelings for the Vampire who had marked her. “He’s a bit…different, isn’t he, Sherlock? Not like any Vampire I’ve ever heard of, anyway.” She was partly fishing for information, but Mary had been so forthcoming she wasn’t surprised when the other woman nodded her agreement.

“Yeah, he’s different. If you had to get Marked and forced into a life as a Vampire’s consort – and yeah, I know that’s exactly the role Mycroft’s got in mind for you, don’t be embarrassed – then you’re lucky it was Sherlock Holmes you got stuck with.”

“More like he’s stuck with me,” Molly murmured before she could stop the words. She blushed, seeing Mary’s raised eyebrow and knowing smirk. “Yeah, it’s crazy, but there’s…something about him. Something between us I don’t quite understand…but I want to. When I never wanted anything to do with Vampires ever, before yesterday, now I just…” She gave a helpless shrug. “I think I trust him,” she said slowly. “But I don’t trust myself, if that makes any sense.”

Mary’s grin vanished, and her expression turned serious as she nodded. “It does, actually. Look, even though I work for them, I’m no Vamp apologist. Mycroft is a complete and utter ass, and most of them are wankers as well, but Sherlock is a good guy. And by that, of course, I mean he’s also a complete ass, but not in a ‘I’m so superior to you lowly Humans’ kind of way.” A dimple appeared in her cheek as she added, “Actually, he thinks he’s superior to everyone, Vamp or Human, but only because he’s genius-level smart, not because he lives on blood and is super strong and all that rot. The fact that he actually Marked you is huge, but I’m sure Mrs. Hudson already told you that, right?” Molly nodded, and Mary continued, “And he did it to save your life – what Vampire you’ve ever heard of would do anything to save a Human’s life? Even one of their own? If Sherlock threatened to kill one of Mycroft’s pets, you can bet your ass he wouldn’t lift a finger to help them. And some of them have been in his fucking harem for years!” 

Molly couldn’t think of anything to say to that, just thanked Mary for looking after her and for taking the time to talk to her. “I know you must be busy, I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough,” she started to say, but Mary just laughed and shook her head.

“No worries, Molly. Yeah, I do have some appointments to keep this afternoon so I can’t stay that long – and Mrs. Hudson will have my head if I don’t pop down for tea and gossip – but next time I come I’ll see if I can do it around lunchtime, yeah? You like Indian?”

As if they were simply two mates hanging out, Mary gave her a quick hug after they’d determined that they both liked chicken tikka and curry, but not _too_ spicy. Molly smiled and waved as Mary left the flat, but her smile faltered and she shivered a bit, burrowing deeper into the oversized dressing-gown as she was left alone with her thoughts.

And oh, did she have an entire _shipload_ of things to think about.


	8. Connections

Molly’s fever raged for just over a week before finally burning itself out; she was not going to be one of the unfortunate few who couldn’t survive being Marked. That was a relief, and an unexpected one to boot. Sherlock wasn’t used to allowing himself to care personally about anyone’s well being, Human or Vampire, and to find that he was not only relieved but actively _pleased_ that Molly was strong enough to endure what his bite had done to her unsettled him.

During the first few days, while Molly was still burning with fever, Dr. Morstan – Mary, as she insisted he call her – had apologetically informed Sherlock that his brother had instructed her to remove the patient’s birth control implant during one of her visits, rather than waiting until she was well enough to go to a clinic. It was a generally painless procedure (at least, under normal circumstances) and not in any way to be considered life-threatening, but Sherlock bristled at his brother’s high-handedness anyway. Mary had waited respectfully for his temper tantrum to run its course before saying anything else, and then was only, “I have your permission, then?” Because of course Molly belonged to Sherlock, not Mycroft, but the threat to Molly remained, a weapon he could hold over his younger brother’s head indefinitely.

He’d snapped out a sullen “Get it over with” before leaving the flat, hoping for a murder he could assist Lestrade and the Yard incompetents with. There was nothing on, unfortunately, but when he saw John Watson finishing up his shift he hesitated a moment, then asked the man if he would mind taking a look at Molly. It might do damage to the tentative relationship he was building with the Human doctor, for him to discover that Sherlock had taken a Human woman and Marked her with his bite, but for some reason he refused to analyze, he was willing to risk that in order to be certain that Molly would survive her current ordeal.

John cautiously agreed to join Sherlock at his flat, although not without trading concerned glances with Lestrade first. “For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock snapped impatiently while the Human doctor hesitated, “If I wanted to feed on you I certainly wouldn’t have to lure you to my flat first! This is strictly a medical matter that I can assure you will end with you taking a cab home as soon as you’re finished examining the patient.”

John had flushed – and yes, dammit, the scent of his blood was rather enticing, Sherlock made a mental note not to leave the flat in future without feeding first from now on – but gone along, his curiosity practically radiating from him. Once in the cab (the Human driver hadn’t even flinched at one of ‘The Masters’ riding in his backseat, points to the fiftyish, divorced father of two who would one day die of the aneurism in his brain), he explained the situation to John. He left nothing out, speaking as emotionlessly as possible, from his brother’s not-so-subtle arm-twisting to Molly’s current, fever-ridden status.

John had said…absolutely nothing. Not one word, although his heart rate had certainly sped up. He sat ramrod straight in the seat, head and eyes forward, and gave no indication of his thoughts one way or another. Sherlock read disapproval in the rigidness of the Human’s form, and began to regret his impulsive request for assistance, not to mention the fully detailed explanation he’d just given. However, once they arrived at Baker Street, John exited the cab along with Sherlock and followed quietly up to his flat. Points to the unmarried war veteran with one alcoholic sibling for exhibiting such quiet bravery as Sherlock rarely encountered.

When they arrived upstairs, Molly was lying on the bed she and Sherlock now shared, tossing and turning, the sheets tangled around her bare legs. She wore only a lightweight nightgown, which clung to her curves in sweat-dampened lengths, but at least she was somewhat decently covered. Mary was sitting on the chair she’d moved closer to the bed, head resting on one hand, but sprang to her feet as soon as Sherlock and John entered. She eyed the newcomer but only informed Sherlock that there had been no change.

“Good, thank you, Mary,” he said, and she started to leave, knowing when she was being dismissed, but stopped and gave John a hard look first.

“Be careful with her. I know Sherlock didn’t bring you in because he doubts my skills, but because he’s worried about Molly, so I won’t hover over you while you examine her. However,” she added, narrowing her eyes threateningly, “if you do one thing to harm my patient, I swear to you, I will come after you personally.”

Instead of being intimidated – no matter how petite Mary Morstan was, she was still employed by a Vampire clan and could realistically be expected to have the backing to make such a threat stick – John smiled at her. “I may be a pathologist, Doctor…sorry, I didn’t get your name?” he asked, offering another smile, this one heavy on the charm.

“Her name is Mary Morstan and you can flirt with her after you’ve taken a look at Dr. Hooper, John,” Sherlock broke in impatiently. Mary simply stepped aside, but he could feel her interest in John intensifying and made sure to hide his smirk of approval from the two of them. He hadn’t intended to play matchmaker by inviting John here, but since the doctor was an inveterate womanizer he should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist turning on the charm for Mary. 

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes only because he’d long since learned self-control when it came to his impatient reactions to the foibles of others. If John and Mary hit it off, it could work in his favor, of course, but that wasn’t the main consideration at the moment, Molly was.

Molly Hooper, whom he’d known for less than a week yet fretted over now as if she had been in his life as long as Mrs. Hudson. Molly, who was burning with a fever he could do nothing to abate except bathe her brow in cool cloths and periodically immerse her body in tepid baths. He knew Mary was amused by his agitation, that she could see it no matter how he tried to conceal it, but was used to the doctor’s pawky sense of humor and ability to see right through him and thus paid it no mind.

He did, however, notice when she gave his fingers a light squeeze before she left the room and it made him wonder; had Mary somehow developed some sort of affection for him in the years they’d known one another? Was she actually trying to comfort him?

It was something to ponder as he watched John checking over Molly’s wound. He saw the other man wince at the sight of the damage Sherlock’s fangs had wrought, and again it was only a near-century of iron control that kept him from wincing as well at the reminder of the damage he’d done to the young woman lying in his bed. All in the name of saving her life, of course, but that didn’t mitigate his culpability. Molly could still die because of him.

“So your brother gave you no choice,” John said quietly, his eyes still on Molly, assessing her condition while his hands reapplied the bandage – fresh, Mary must have changed it right before they arrived. 

“That’s correct,” Sherlock replied, wondering where this sudden conversation was going – and for once, not even attempting to make one of his lightning-quick deductions. He would much rather wait and see what John had to say, then go from there. He liked the man, might even consider him a friend someday, although he wasn’t sure if it was something John would be able – or willing – to reciprocate.

Still looking at Molly, wringing out a fresh cloth to place on her forehead from the bowl of cool water resting on the nightstand, John continued: “I don’t really know why, Sherlock, but I believe you.”

_Sherlock_. It was the first time the doctor had used his name. Lestrade used it all the time, but it had taken him nearly a decade of acquaintance for him to lower his guard enough to do so. Sherlock had only known John Watson just under three years, yet he’d taken that step and made it sound as natural as if he’d done so all his life. “I appreciate that,” he said, although now that John had spoken up a flood of deductions filled Sherlock’s mind unbidden: _He sees how careful I’m being with Molly, sized up Mary as not simply attractive but also good at her job, so he’s aware that I am doing my best to ensure that Molly makes it safely through the process, and chooses to believe that it’s because I care about what happens to her rather than it being a matter of expediency. I’ve never lied to either him or Lestrade and would have no possible motive for doing so now, another point in my favor; the only question is, how long will it take for the two of them to trust me enough to…_

“You’re doing it, aren’t you,” John interrupted his speeding thoughts, finally looking directly at Sherlock and offering up a wry grin. “Deducing me. Figuring out if I’m telling the truth or not.”

“You are,” Sherlock replied absently, although his eyes were once again fixed on Molly, whose breathing had eased somewhat. “You believe my story, improbable though it is.”

John shrugged and stepped back, gesturing toward the chair as if offering a distraught relative a place to sit by the side of an ailing patient – not an incorrect gesture, under the circumstances, but an unexpected one. Sherlock moved to take the seat, noting that John’s heart rate had slowed to normal, and that the faint odor of fear that had lingered during the cab ride had dissipated.

John Watson wasn’t afraid of him anymore, even though he was in Sherlock’s home, where the Vampire was strongest and most comfortable.

Interesting. That was one thing Mycroft had forgotten since his transformation; how very often Humans could surprise even a Vampire.

“What is your prognosis, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, reaching out without thinking to take Molly’s hand in his as she fretted and tossed. She quieted instantly, and again he marveled at the fact that he didn’t have to actively attempt to touch her mind with his in order for his presence to calm her.

He was young to have anything beyond the most basic of Vampire lures, and it was one of his most carefully kept secrets. However, he could foresee a time when he would have to tell Molly, or else be accused of unduly influencing her into accepting her fate and allowing him to Mark her. It would be especially important that he tell her this before the conception of their first child…

Wait, wrong, he was absolutely not contemplating some kind of domestic harmony with this woman! She was his property by Vampire law, and nothing more. Chattel. A vessel for bearing his offspring, his to feed on even to the point of death if he so desired. That was how his fellow Vampires treated their slaves, and it would be so much easier if he just did as his brother urged and followed centuries – millennia – of tradition.

But he couldn’t. He’d barely known Molly Hooper for a week, most of which she’d been raging with fever; his humanity had supposedly been purged from him the night he’d been Turned, and yet somehow he’d managed to become the antithesis of what had been expected of him, of what every other Vampire had become. He’d considered that a strength, an advantage others of his kind didn’t possess, and yet now he was beginning to wonder if it was a weakness after all. This fierce protectiveness that he felt at the thought of Molly being taken from him – either by his own hand if infection set in from his bite or at the hands of an enemy or worse, his own brother – it couldn’t be a strength.

Could it?

John brought him out of his troublesome thoughts by giving a cautious answer to the question Sherlock had not forgotten about, in spite of his mind’s wanderings. “I think Dr. Morstan’s done as much as anyone could under the circumstances,” he said. “Unless you allow me to administer antibiotics or even paracetamol, there’s not much else I can do to make her more comfortable.” He hesitated before speaking again. “This sort of thing…does it happen often?”

It was the question Sherlock had been waiting for, an opportunity for him to impart information to a vital member of the Human underground without suspicion of being fed false data clouding the issue. John had clearly registered Sherlock’s real concern for Molly’s condition, taken in the fact that he had another physician caring for her, and now was the perfect time to tell him the truth about the dangers of Marking. To confirm what many must suspect but no one knew for certain.

“Come into the parlor,” he said, rising from his seat and reluctantly releasing Molly’s hand. She made a fretful sound but kept sleeping, a good sign.

John followed him from the room, leaving the door mostly open behind them, no doubt to listen for Molly. Sherlock could easily hear her even if the door was tightly shut, but said nothing, pleased by the other man’s professionalism throughout what must surely seem a surreal experience.

They joined Mary, who was chatting quietly with Mrs. Hudson. John’s expression at the sight of the elderly woman was amusing, but Sherlock’s admiration for the man only grew as he greeted her warmly rather than with the suspicion that anyone of her generation usually received from Humans. If she was alive it was only because a Vampire had requested that she not be put to death during the purges, and too many Humans would view the elderly woman as nothing but a collaborator. Not John Watson; Sherlock could practically see the wheels spinning as he tried to puzzle out why Sherlock would have bothered to save her.

“Ask me anything, John,” he said, standing in front of the cluttered desk, hands folded behind his back as the other man’s gaze met his. “I will answer any question honestly and to the best of my ability, and I give my word there will be no negative repercussions.”

And so the seeds were finally sown that Sherlock had so patiently nurtured with his relationship with this man and DI Lestrade. A collaboration between Vampire and Human to bring a saner and more balanced world into existence.

A world where he and Molly, once she recovered from her fever, might actually be able to form a bond based on something other than fear and mutual physical attraction.


	9. Good News/Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but I know where I'm going with this story now so the next chapter shouldn't be so long in coming. As a quick recap: Molly was Marked by Sherlock and was feverish and ill for a week. Dr. John Watson and DI Lestrade are now allies in Sherlock's covert attempts to help humans improve their lot, and John has shown interest in Mary Morstan (although that isn't addressed in this chapter, it will be in later chapters). Oh, and here be smut and biting of a less traumatic kind than being Marked.

Molly examined her reflection in the bathroom mirror for about the dozenth time in as many minutes, stretching her neck and craning her head this way and that in order to try and see all the intricate details in her new Mark. She wasn’t admiring it, not precisely, but had to admit that the elaborate whorls and curlicues that made up the initials SVH were not entirely repugnant to look at. What they represented, of course, was an entirely different matter.

She’d been fully recovered from her fever for over a week now, and the scars left behind by Sherlock’s fangs had finally settled into their final form. The only truly mystical aspect of Vampirism was how these monograms formed; lots of theories had been put forth, but as far as Molly – and Sherlock, once she found the courage to ask him – knew, none had ever been proven.

She’d awoken from her fever to not only find her neck well on the way to healing, but that some other changes had occurred while she’d been delirious, almost all of them what she would cautiously label as ‘good’. For one, Sherlock had somehow gained the confidence of the police coroner, Dr. John Watson, who was in touch with members of a particular resistance movement that Sherlock was keen to aid.

That had another change; she’d been brought into his confidence as well, even though he could easily have kept such a secret from her. The only reason he could possibly have for doing so was that, incredibly, he trusted her, in a manner that couldn’t entirely be explained away by the fact that she literally belonged to him now, body and soul.

The change she was least enthusiastic about, of course, was the fact that Mycroft Holmes had ordered her birth control implant removed while she’d been battling infection and fever, and that Dr. Morstan had done as he commanded. Sherlock had informed of that fact immediately after she’d awoken, the morning her fever broke. He’d neither bitten nor fucked her since her recovery, but she knew both were inevitably in her future, and found herself less conflicted over it, even knowing about her birth control implant’s removal, than she thought she would be.

It was partially the connection she’d felt to Sherlock even before he’d Marked her, but it was also the trust he’d placed in her when he’d told her about his attempts to aid the underground movement John Watson belonged to. If Sherlock wanted to be able to live this dangerous double life of his, then the best camouflage he could manufacture was a show of compliance with his brother’s wishes. He’d seemed surprised, however, when Molly had wholeheartedly agreed with him.

They’d been lying in bed together during the early evening hours; she’d attempted to shift her schedule to a more nocturnal one to accommodate him, which had proven to be both easier and more difficult than she’d expected; easier because her shifts at the morgue were often overnighters, more difficult because the fever had drained her resources and she still needed more sleep than usual. Since she was still technically in recovery from that ordeal, Mycroft wasn’t pressuring Sherlock much as of yet, but they both knew it was only a matter of time. “He’s at least pleased that I Marked you,” Sherlock had commented as he lay next to her, one hand idly tracing the silvery scars on her throat in the dimly lit bedroom.

She’d shivered at his touch, but not from pain or even unease; every time he came near her it was as if her entire body went on high alert. She’d heard of people aching for another’s touch, but had never understood exactly what that meant until now. “He’s pleased but won’t be satisfied that you’re knuckling under to him until you get me up the duff,” Molly had replied, earning a frown of distaste from Sherlock at her crudity. She’d shrugged. “We both know it’s true, there’s no point in trying to pretty things up, Sherlock.”

That was when he’d told her about John Watson and DI Lestrade and their efforts to create a different world, to bring some balance back. Yes, if they thought they could overthrow the Vampires entirely he knew they would, but they were practical men; now that Vampires no longer existed in the shadows, there was no way to go back to an entirely Human-ruled world. Any such attempts would lead to more wars, more death, and an even grimmer future for the Humans than the one they currently faced.

“So you getting me pregnant will be a good way to throw your brother off the track,” Molly had concluded when Sherlock fell silent. “To make him think you’re doing what he wants.” She’d taken a deep breath and looked him squarely in those brilliant, sapphire-blue eyes. “All right. We should do it, then. Everything he wants you to do – parade me around, show me off, and get me pregnant as quickly as possible. Anything I can do to help.”

He’d kissed her, cradling her head in his large, elegant hands, and held her close to his body until she’d finally drifted off to sleep. That had been three days ago.

“Molly?”

She started at the sound of his voice calling her from the bedroom, glancing automatically at the window as she did so. Yes, the sun was down, and Sherlock was awake. She’d meant to be there when he woke up, but had been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d lost track of time. She shut off the bathroom light and walked to the bedroom, opening the door to find him standing in front of the newly-opened windows, the blackout shutters thrown back and the cool night air breezing in.

“Sorry, I was just…” Molly fell silent, indicating her neck as he turned to face her. His hands were tucked behind his back, clenched together; even in the dimness she could see his knuckles showing more whitely than usual, and wondered uneasily what was wrong.

Before she could ask he’d stepped over to her, pulling her into his arms for a heated kiss, the first kiss they’d shared since he’d Marked her. His lips were cool against hers but only for the first few seconds; they warmed quickly as he demanded entry to her mouth with his tongue, entry she quickly granted as she ran her hands up his back and clutched him tightly to her.

She shouldn’t want this, to feel his hands on her body, his mouth against hers, the coolness of his flesh compared to her own as arousal heated her skin, but she did. Many would condemn her for melting into his embrace, for baring her neck to him and moaning as he sunk his fangs into her tender flesh, just as they would condemn her for bearing his Mark in the first place, for agreeing to bear a half-Vampire child, but she couldn’t bring herself to care what the faceless masses might think of her. Certainly not when Sherlock was so carefully peeling away her dressing gown and the satiny nightgown she wore beneath it, when his fingers were gliding the matching knickers she wore down her legs, letting them drop to her ankles so she could step out of them.

His own clothing soon was quickly removed as he guided her back to the bed they shared; his kisses became urgent, his hands a bit rougher, but Molly found herself willingly submitting to whatever he wanted – needed – from her.

What he needed most, apparently, was to taste every inch of her exposed flesh, ending with his mouth on her cunt, somehow managing to suck her clit into his mouth without once piercing her flesh with his fangs. She held as still as she could, but once she felt his tongue thrusting deep inside she couldn’t help herself; she clutched the bedclothes and arched her back, moaning and panting as he worked her with lips and tongue.

She was close, so very close, when he pulled his mouth away, turning to press a kiss to the top of her thigh while slipping two fingers inside her, curling them as he thrust into her while his thumb circled her clit. He seemed to remain fully in control of himself until Molly unthinkingly reached down and buried her fingers in his hair; with a growl he lunged for her femoral artery, sinking his fangs deep into her flesh and wrenching a cataclysmic orgasm out of her.

While she was still shuddering through the aftershocks, barely aware of the world around her, Sherlock had raised himself above her; she cried out as she felt him penetrating her, curling her arms around his shoulders and digging her heels into the mattress in order to brace herself against his powerful thrusts, feeling the wet warmth of the blood from her thigh smearing itself on his flesh with every move.

When he captured her mouth for a bruising kiss, she tasted herself, blood and pussy mixed together, a heady infusion that helped bring her to the brink of a second orgasm. As if he sensed her imminent explosion, Sherlock slowed his movements, easing out of her and back in again until she wanted to scream and claw him, demand that he stop tormenting her – and when she opened her eyes to meet his in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, to see the half-smile on his face as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, she gave into those dark desires. Her nails were too blunt to draw blood but she knew she was leaving red marks along the pale flesh of his back, marks that would swiftly fade and vanish, but to which he reacted with a gratifying grunt of surprise. And as she growled out his name, demanded that he give her what she needed, she was further gratified to feel him speeding his movements again, until he was pistoning against her, the naked slap of flesh on flesh filling her ears until she threw her head back and virtually howled in triumph as her release flooded over her.

Afterwards, as she lay half-asleep and full sated, Sherlock lying on his side next to her, she smiled and allowed her fingers to drift over his rapidly-cooling flesh, only to be jolted from her post-coital bliss by Sherlock’s bluntly spoken words. “Mycroft wants to see your Mark. He texted me,” he added, indicating the mobile lying on the bedside table. 

“All right, fine, I’ll get dressed, I assume he’s coming by tonight?” Molly asked, trying not to panic at the thought of seeing Sherlock’s terrifying older brother once again.

Sherlock started to say something, hesitated, then abruptly rose to his feet, running his fingers through his hair the way he did when something was troubling him. “It’s not just that he wants to see it for himself,” he finally said, pacing the room’s short length as best he could. “He has spies, they could verify its presence. No, it’s…there’s something else he wants us to do. To prove that I’ve not only Marked you, but that we’re engaging in sexual relations.”

Molly sat up, hugging the sheet and comforter to her breast as she regarded him anxiously. “I already told you…I mean, I thought we agreed that me getting pregnant was the best way to do that, to keep him from suspecting anything?”

Sherlock stopped in mid-pace, returning to the side of the bed and dropping to one knee, reaching out to take Molly’s hands in his. “Molly, have you ever heard of a Viewing?”

She jerked her hands free, or tried to, shock and distress pulling the blood from her face and extremities so that she felt as cold as any Vampire. “He—he wants us to do, to do that?” she whispered, utterly horrified by the idea. “Oh, Sherlock, do we have to? Can’t you tell him no?”

She knew the answer even before he shook his head. “I can’t, Molly, you know I can’t. Not unless I want to jeopardize everything I’ve worked so hard to build. Oh, Lestrade and Watson would be fine, I doubt my brother would drag them into it, but I’d be under even more surveillance than I already am if I refuse. And much as I would prefer not to put you through such an ordeal, I’m afraid we have very little choice.” He released his tight grip on her hands in order to brush his fingers through the tangles of her hair. “But I will, if you ask me to. I’ll refuse, and I know he won’t ask again. But I also know he’ll find a way to make our existence a living hell if I do.”

She knew he wasn’t simply dumping this onto her shoulders, but it felt that way to Molly’s panicky mind. But then, if he simply made the decision without consulting her, she would be just as unhappy. It was a no-win situation for both of them, and she knew it.

With that in mind, she gave a short nod. “All right, let’s do it. As soon as possible,” she added, giving him her fiercest look. “I want to get it over with.”

Sherlock kissed her knuckles, then drew her close and kissed her lips as well. “I promise I’ll make it as quick and painless as possible, Molly. But you know I can’t hypnotize or drug you, or they’ll cry foul and say it doesn’t count; my brethren love a spectacle and won’t appreciate it if I cheat them of a single reaction on your part.”

Molly shivered, and Sherlock rose to join her on the bed, taking her into his arms although they both knew nothing would really soothe her until this was over with. “I understand,” she whispered, then closed her eyes and tried to ease her suddenly-ragged breathing. Only the feel of Sherlock’s hands on her back, stroking her as if she were a child in need of comfort, kept her in place as she tried to reconcile herself to this new, unwelcome reality.

She wanted Sherlock to succeed, to find a way to work with Humans so that the current imbalance in power could be corrected, and if this was part of the price she had to pay to help him achieve that goal, then she would do it.

A Viewing. She repressed another shudder at the thought. She and Sherlock would be expected to get dressed up, to meet Mycroft and whatever cronies he’d invited along with him at some Vampire club; to have a few drinks, and then…

Molly shuddered and took a series of deep, calming breaths, still feeling Sherlock’s soothing touch on her back, the slow, almost imperceptible beat of his heart beneath her cheek. After the drinks and perhaps some dancing, the two of them would be expected to have sex right there in front of everyone. Well, everyone who cared to watch, at any rate, which would certainly be Mycroft and very likely Anthea and their other guests. Probably no one else, Sherlock tried to assure her, but since Molly was Sherlock’s first – and so far, only – Marked Human, she had the feeling there would be a lot more interest in watching the two of them.

Public sex to show that Sherlock owned her, to proclaim her his mistress, and to demonstrate his willingness to father a child with her. It was like something out of a bad movie or pornographic novel, but it was something she was going to have to allow if she wanted to keep Mycroft from suspecting his brother’s duplicity.


	10. The Viewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for coerced sex and biting. Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, I appreciate it so much!

Only Sherlock’s fingers laced through her own kept Molly from bolting in panic as soon as they passed through the double doors leading into the exclusive Vampire club. Her breathing was labored, her heart pounding in her chest loudly enough for a normal Human to hear, let alone the dozens of Vampires that now surrounded her. She broke out in a sweat as every head swiveled to take in the sight of the two of them, and as knowing, feral grins showing hints of fang appeared on seemingly every face.

She felt faint, dizzy, but managed to remain on her feet as Sherlock guided her to the private room at the back where Mycroft and an unknown amount of others awaited their arrival. They were a half-hour late, but Sherlock had insisted that he needed to put on this show of reluctance and rebelliousness in order to keep his brother from suspecting anything.

“Breathe, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice was low and calm and his advice was legitimate; she’d been holding her breath, not realizing she was doing so until she felt his hand at the back of her neck and heard him speak. He’d lowered his head to speak to her, but as she felt his lips brush her earlobe she understood that he was also reminding her of the show they had to put on. No one would expect her to be excited at the prospect of having public sex with her Vampire ‘master’ given her personal history, but she was still supposed to put on a brave face, difficult though that was proving to do.

Her life had been so calm and orderly not too long ago, hadn’t it? Not perfect, of course, but quiet. Organized. A bit lonely, yes, but safe. As safe as any Human’s life could be in this day and age.

_Boring_ , she said silently as she allowed Sherlock to take her hand and lead her to his brother’s small group. _Admit it, Molly, that’s the word you’re looking for. Boring. And not just ‘a bit’ lonely, either; it was damned lonely, just you and Toby and the telly and work._

But it was what she’d thought she wanted, until she’d met Sherlock Holmes. Discovering that there actually was one Vampire in the world who’d somehow managed to hold onto his humanity after being Turned made her see things in an entirely different light; she’d been existing rather than living, and even if things ended poorly for the two of them – even if Mycroft Holmes discovered that his brother was a secret force for change and working with Humans, sharing long-kept Vampiric secrets with them – she realized she wouldn’t change her fate for the world. 

Not if it meant being separated from a man she suspected she was falling in love with.

“Ah, Sherlock, how nice of you to finally decide to join us.”

Mycroft’s dry tones jolted her back to reality, and Molly swiftly lowered her eyes and bobbed her head. “Master Holmes,” she said by way of greeting. She felt Sherlock’s hand tighten on hers and didn’t need to see his expression to know he was annoyed. But there was no point to this charade if she failed to show the proper deference to the man who still held her life in his hands; at any point Mycroft could change his mind and decide to kill her for the ‘crime’ of being disrespectful to him in front of a witness. Even though she now technically belonged to his brother, that wouldn’t stop him if he truly wanted to see her punished.

“Miss Hooper,” he said in falsely pleasant tones. “You may dispense with the usual kowtowing this evening; it will be much more enjoyable for all of us if you are allowed to look wherever you choose.”

“How kind,” Sherlock retorted drily. He guided Molly to a seat and pulled it out for her before taking the chair next to hers. He leaned his arm casually over the back and draped his fingers across her bare shoulder, toying with the ends of her hair as he turned his gaze on his brother. They were both dressed for clubbing, Molly in a cheery yellow halter dress that barely reached her thighs, and Sherlock in a pair of tight blue jeans and a dark blue button-down that set off the long, pale column of his throat to perfection. “We’re here as ordered, Mycroft. Can we please get this over with so Molly and I can go back home?”

“He’s a mouthy one, isn’t he?” the woman seated next to Mycroft murmured with a small, humorless smile. It wasn’t Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea, but another beautiful brunette, this one with a slight Irish accent and a look of calculated boredom in her perfectly made-up eyes. Molly spared a moment to sigh wistfully; she never could manage the ‘winged eyeliner’ look. She wore a sleek red faux-leather sleeveless dress and matching fingerless gloves. Even her lipstick and long, dangerous-looking nails were the same shade of crimson. A bit over the top, in Molly’s opinion, but then, this was a Vampire, and they seemed to have no concept of ‘over the top’.

Or modesty. She shivered a bit and turned her face away from the other woman, studying Mycroft as he spoke instead. He was dressed the same as always, in a conservative grey suit including waistcoat, although he’d draped his dress coat over the back of his chair and rolled up the sleeves to his white shirt in some concession to the casual nature of their current venue.

“My dear brother never has learned when best to keep it shut,” he said in response to Sherlock’s snarky comment, bestowing a tight smile on the other woman. “Janine, allow me to introduce Sherlock and his new pet, Molly. Who will soon be proving the family with a new member, am I right?”

“Eventually, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied smoothly as Molly tensed, floundering for the proper response. “Even Vampires can’t magically impregnate women, brother _dear_.” There was a definite sneer in his voice on that last word, and Molly hoped he wouldn’t get so caught up in his ongoing feud that he forgot himself.

But no, there was too much at stake; with a glowering look, Sherlock subsided sulkily, apparently ignoring the other introductions that were made, although Molly knew he was actually taking careful note. There was a newspaperman named Magnussen, who was Janine’s employer and dressed nearly as formally as Mycroft, and another Irish Vampire, this one called Rich Brook, whose cold, dark eyes gave Molly the shivers. He was clad head to foot in black – jeans, motorcycle boots, and t-shirt, all carefully designed to look like afterthoughts and all clearly costing at least a month’s salary if she were to purchase them.

She accepted the glass of wine a blank-faced Human waitress handed her with a murmured thanks she doubted the other woman even heard. Her neck was Marked in a manner similar to Molly’s, although the elaborate swirls and whorls made the letters MVH rather than SVH. With a flash of understanding, Molly realized that this club was owned and staffed by Mycroft Holmes; not that she’d expected there to be any allies to be found if things went pear shaped, but knowing they were surrounded by those loyal to Sherlock’s brother sent a prickle of fear down Molly’s spine.

Sherlock tugged lightly on her hair, drawing her attention back to him. She managed a small smile as he held her gaze.

“How absolutely adorable, Mycroft; I think the girl actually has feelings for your brother!”

Molly felt her cheeks glowing red at Janine’s mocking words, but Sherlock’s hand on her chin kept her from ducking her head. “Is there something wrong with that, Janine?” he asked, keeping his voice even, almost bored. “Isn’t that what we want, after all? Their adoration as well as their fear? After all, if they love us, won’t they be even easier to control?”

A burst of hilarity greeted his words; even Mycroft gave a polite chuckle, as if his brother were making a joke instead of being ironic. “Well, it’s obvious she’s smitten with you,” Magnussen drawled, lifting Janine’s unresisting hand in his. He brought it up to his lips, but instead of kissing it, he licked it from wrist to fingertip. 

Molly tried not to show her revulsion, but the Vampire’s smirk told her he noticed. Janine gave no outward signs that it affected her one way or another, but when Molly met her gaze, there was something there, some small flicker of resignation that told her the Vampire was as much a thrall to Magnusson as any Human. She filed that away for future discussion with Sherlock; even if Janine wasn’t sympathetic to Humans, her potential disgruntlement with Magnussen might still prove useful someday. Sherlock had told her to be extra observant at this meeting, and not just for her own protection. He valued her judgement, her opinions of others, and she wouldn’t let him down just because she was terrified of what was to come – and what might happen to her and to Sherlock both if things didn’t go according to plan, if Mycroft or one of his minions copped to the true reason for their cooperation in this insanity. 

“Yes, well, Molly being smitten with me is very much the point of you foisting her on me, isn’t it, Mycroft?” Sherlock continued to sound bored, and if Molly hadn’t been very carefully coached on how he planned to act this evening, she might have begun to panic a bit and wonder if everything he’d ever said to her had been a lie, part of some great game he was playing with his brother. But no, she’d witnessed enough to know that this was the lie. That although a game was being played and she was one of the pieces, Sherlock wasn’t simply using her. It would be best all around if Mycroft believed that, however, and so Molly gave Sherlock a wounded look and pulled very slightly away from him.

He gave her one of his most insincere smiles, showing a great deal of fang as he reached out and lightly traced his fingers along the Mark on her throat. She shivered at the light brush of flesh on flesh; the sheer desire she felt whenever he touched her hadn’t faded, not the slightest bit, and she wondered if it was as permanent as the elaborate monogram his fingers were continuing to stroke.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips in one of his cold smiles. “You seem to have not only resigned yourself to having a personal slave, Sherlock, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were actually enjoying it!”

“I prefer the term consort, Mycroft,” Sherlock corrected him sharply. “And yes, it has turned out to be far less of a nuisance than I expected. Having a trained pathologist to help me with my work with the police, someone to bounce ideas off of…”

“And of course, there’s the sex.” That was Rich Brook – Master Brook, Molly mentally corrected herself. She would have to be careful to call them all by their titles even in her own mind and not let the easy familiarity between herself and Sherlock trip her up, or the consequences could be literally fatal. His deep brown eyes crinkled with a sort of dark amusement as he took out and lit a cigarette. “Can’t wait to have a look at the pair of you naked. Is she a screamer or a moaner? I’d say a moaner,” he added with a leer, and Molly flushed bright red in a mixture of humiliation and anger. 

“Either way, Brook, do get your fill tonight, as it is the only time you’ll ever be allowed this close to either of us,” Sherlock growled, pulling Molly tightly to his side and glaring at the other man. His sapphire-blue eyes flashed dangerously as he allowed his fangs to show in a rare display of aggression.

“Sherlock, please stop antagonizing my guests, it’s bad for business,” Mycroft chided him.

“I fail to see how any of this is bad for the government, which is the only ‘business’ to which you could possibly be referring,” Sherlock snapped. “My taking of a mate and Marking her, subjecting her to this barbaric display which you insisted upon…”

“Which is a tradition amongst our kind,” Mycroft corrected him coldly. “And one that, in your case, brother dear, is absolutely necessary.” He glanced over at Molly. “Yes, it’s quite obvious you’ve Marked her, but there are other parts of our agreement that require equal proof.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, lovely, you want to make sure I’ve fucked her and won’t simply take my word – or hers – for it. Shall we get it over with, then?” He stood up abruptly, yanking Molly by one arm so that she was forced to rise with him. She stared as he began to unbutton his shirt, frozen in place until he pinned her with his gaze. “No sense in trying for modesty, Molly, not when everyone is panting to see where else I’ve bitten you. To watch me stick my cock into your cunt and suck on your tits and…”

“Sherlock! That is quite enough!” Mycroft sounded furious, and Molly cringed away from him, not needing to fake her sudden terror. Sherlock’s arm went around her protectively, and she heard him hiss a warning at his brother – a warning and a threat.

“Come on, Molly.” Sherlock pulled her away from the table, his unbuttoned shirt hanging loosely on his lean form.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Mycroft demanded coldly.

Sherlock glared back at him. “You insisted we do this, brother dear,” he sneered. “So I’m taking Molly out to the dance floor, and we’ll get it over with in the traditional manner.” His contemptuous gaze raked the impassive faces of the others. “Not back here, in a private room for your cronies to salivate over, but in front of everyone in the club.”

A flicker of some emotion crossed, Mycroft’s face, swiftly vanished beneath the cold veneer Molly had always seen before. She wasn’t sure which would be worse; having sex with Sherlock bent over this table or up against one of the velvet-covered walls while his brother and the others watched, or out in front of the Humans and Vampires dancing and drinking in the more public part of the club. Then her gaze accidentally met that of Rich Brook, and she shivered as she hurriedly looked down and away. No, she decided, she would much rather put on a show for everyone in the world than be locked in a room containing that particular Vampire. Mycroft held the literal power of life and death over her, but Rich Brook terrified her at a visceral level, for reasons she couldn’t articulate even inside her own head.

She could feel the controlled fury radiating off of Sherlock as he pulled her relentlessly after him to the center of the dance floor. He didn’t need to push anyone aside; everyone seemed to melt away as the two of them reached their destination, but Molly could feel the eyes watching them as the music pulsed and throbbed through her body. It was louder than she’d remembered, testimony to the soundproofing on the private room they’d just left, and she wondered just what Sherlock had in mind now that he’d brought her out here.

She wasn’t left to wonder long, as her Vampire lover began gyrating to the pounding rhythm of the dance music, his hands on her waist lowering to her hips as he tugged and guided her into joining him. Under other circumstances she would be impressed by his skills on the dance floor, but right now all she could do was worry about what was going to happen next.

Until she heard his voice, a low, seductive murmur in her ear and somehow – impossibly – in her mind as he pulled her closer and ground against her. “Molly, you don’t know what you do to me, do you. How you make me want you whether you’re wearing those ridiculous oversized jumpers and khakis you prefer, or dressed like this, wearing something just made to be torn from your body.” His hands slid down her hips to the tops of her thighs, then back up again, dragging the material with him until her bottom was exposed. She was wearing only a black satin thong beneath her dress and no stockings or bra; as she met Sherlock’s gaze she saw the red flooding his eyes, turning his iris that electric purple she’d grown to associate with raw desire, and gave into the mad impulse to pull him closer and press her lips to his.

With a flick of his wrist Sherlock undid the clasp holding the top of her halter dress around her neck, and the silky material slithered down to join the skirt bunched up around her waist. Molly’s naked breasts pressed against his equally naked chest, the crisp, gingery chest hairs teasing her nipples into full erectness even as he deepened the kiss. His tongue was in her mouth, his voice was in her mind, and Molly lost herself in the sensations he was so expertly evoking. The noise of the music and the crowd faded away, until it was as if only the two of them were in the club.

She could feel his erection through his jeans, and reached down to undo the snap and zip, sliding her fingers beneath his pants and tugging the turgid flesh free from its restraints. She vaguely realized Sherlock had snapped her thong and removed it as she pulled his jeans and pants down to the tops of his thighs. Then he was sliding those long, clever fingers of his deep inside her, teasing her cleft, eliciting moan after moan from her throat as he brought her closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy. Then his fingers were gone, and her moans became groans of frustration, quickly swallowed by kiss after kiss as he suddenly lifted her off her feet.

Molly wrapped her legs around Sherlock’s waist, balancing herself automatically, her hands tangled in his luscious curls as he eased her down onto his heated shaft. When he entered her she cried out, her near-screams swallowed by his feverish kisses as her clawed fingers dug into his scalp. She heard him give a hiss of pleasure-pain, felt him fully seated so deep inside her, balancing her easily with his supernatural strength, thrusting upward to meet her own enthusiastic downwards motions, their mingled groans and cries growing in volume with every eager slap of skin on skin. He filled her beautifully, his hands on her ass kneading the flesh as he twisted his hips and wrenched a near-scream of ecstasy from her as she finally cascaded down, down over the blissful edge to which he’d brought her. She felt him pulsing inside her moments later, and dropped her head to his shoulder, breathing hard as he stopped his urgent movements and simply held her, pressing soft kisses to her face and neck.

Suddenly she felt the sweet thrill of his fangs piercing her flesh, and cried out in renewed pleasure as a second orgasm swelled and crested with every pull of his fangs and lips on her throat. After he’d drunk his fill, Sherlock slowly eased her to her feet. She wobbled a bit, then found herself swept into his arms. “Cover yourself, Molly, the show’s over,” he ordered her, and she looked up, dazed and uncomprehending, until she saw the frown forming on his face. She fumbled with the halter top but finally managed to pull it up, although she couldn’t seem to manage the clasp and simply held it in place instead.

Sherlock had done up his jeans at some point and tugged her skirt down so she bore some semblance of modesty as he swung her around so that he faced the open doorway of the private room his brother currently occupied. Molly saw that Mycroft’s guests had joined the crowd of cheering, hooting Vampires that stood respectfully back from Sherlock, and felt a blush spreading across her cheeks as her dazed mind finally came back into focus. Had they really done all that, shared such a heated, intimate moment, in front of the gathered crowd?

“Well done, brother.” Mycroft’s voice cut through the noise even though he didn’t bother to raise his voice. “Do be sure to send word once conception has been confirmed.” Then he turned and reentered the private room, while Sherlock carried Molly out of the club and into a waiting cab.

The last thing Molly saw before the club’s doors swung shut behind them was the watching, smiling face of Rich Brook…and the haze of red that had flooded his shark-like eyes. Shuddering, Molly buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder and tried not to weep.


	11. Aftercare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: Sherlock had done up his jeans at some point and tugged her skirt down so she bore some semblance of modesty as he swung her around so that he faced the open doorway of the private room his brother currently occupied. Molly saw that Mycroft’s guests had joined the crowd of cheering, hooting Vampires that stood respectfully back from Sherlock, and felt a blush spreading across her cheeks as her dazed mind finally came back into focus. Had they really done all that, shared such a heated, intimate moment, in front of the gathered crowd?_
> 
> _“Well done, brother.” Mycroft’s voice cut through the noise even though he didn’t bother to raise his voice. “Do be sure to send word once conception has been confirmed.” Then he turned and reentered the private room, while Sherlock carried Molly out of the club and into a waiting cab._
> 
> _The last thing Molly saw before the club’s doors swung shut behind them was the watching, smiling face of Rich Brook…and the haze of red that had flooded his shark-like eyes. Shuddering, Molly buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder and tried not to weep._

The ride back to Baker Street was a quiet one, with the cabbie nervously flicking his gaze at his two passengers via the rearview mirror, and Sherlock staring out the window at the passing traffic. Molly had finally managed to fasten the clasp to her dress; when she made as if to sit as far from Sherlock as she could, however, he’d pulled her firmly to his side and wrapped his arm around her shivering form. She could still feel the stickiness of his semen between her legs and trickling down her thighs, the weight of Rich Brook’s hungry gaze, the humiliation at having had sex in front of dozens of strangers as well as Sherlock’s brother and his guests. She felt a sudden surge of nausea, her skin clammy and vision blurring, but when she reached for the button to lower the window, Sherlock shifted in his seat, hauling her into his lap and running soothing hands down her back.

“Hush, love, we’re nearly home,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breath against her ear. She buried her face in his neck, breathing deeply of his scent, spiced as it still was by the musk of their frenzied coupling, and felt her stomach calm itself once again. She was in such mental and emotional turmoil that his words were little more than noises; comforting noises, but the actual words themselves wouldn’t register on her consciousness until later. Much later, after things had gone to shit and she needed something, anything, to remind her that Sherlock actually held some affection for her.

As soon as the taxi stopped, she felt Sherlock moving, reaching for his wallet, paying the driver and then opening the door. She knew she should move, slide off his lap so he could get out more easily, but felt a heaviness in her limbs, a sort of numb exhaustion that she recognized as signs of shock, and simply allowed him to do what he would with her. Which in this case involved him sliding off the seat and onto the pavement as smoothly as if he always did so with the limp weight of a nearly unconscious woman in his arms.

Movement, the cool night air on her exposed flesh; then the sound of a door opening, Mrs. Hudson’s sympathetic coos as she let them into the building, fading into silence as Sherlock carried Molly up the stairs to his flat. She heard Toby mewing but couldn’t muster the strength to do more than mumble his name as Sherlock continued to carry her into their bedroom.

“He’s been fed, Mrs. Hudson took care of that. She won’t admit it but she’s actually rather fond of him,” Sherlock murmured as he carefully deposited her into the middle of the bed. She nodded wearily, then closed her eyes and curled onto her side. Silence, then the sound of running water, and Sherlock’s presence at her side. She winced as he urged her onto her back, allowing him to do whatever it was he – oh, of course. A warm, wet cloth between her legs, cleaning up the sticky remains of their recent activities, the feel of her shoes being removed, and then the covers were pulled over her as she rolled onto her side again.

Sherlock’s arms around her, his body close against her own, his lips soft and warm on her neck, were the last things she registered before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Sherlock listened to Molly’s breathing as it slowed and deepened; she’d fallen into sleep the way one would fall over a cliff, suddenly and without warning. Shock and reaction; he probably should have tried to coax a cup of heavily sugared tea down her throat, but it was clear to him that reality wasn’t something she was ready to face just yet, even in so innocuous a form. At least she wasn’t fighting him, wasn’t pushing him away or rejecting him as he’d half-feared she would; even though she’d agreed to do this, that it was the only way to keep Mycroft from suspecting them of subversive activities, it didn’t make it any easier on her.

Nor on him. If he thought he could kill Mycroft without further consequences to Molly, he’d have done so within minutes of stepping into the club.

However, it wasn’t his irritating brother that occupied his thoughts at the moment, but the two guests he’d invited to witness the Viewing, Magnussen and Brook. Janine he dismissed as unimportant, clearly only there for Magnussen’s amusement; there was a hierarchy amongst Vampires just as there still was amongst Humans, and some powerful Vamps enjoyed showing off their status by demonstrating their power over their own kind as much as they enjoyed doing the same over Humans. If Vampires could be Marked the same way Humans could, Janine would have borne Magnussen’s initials on her throat just as Molly currently bore his own.

He ghosted his fingers over those three letters; Molly twitched and sighed but didn’t awaken. She’d endured so much since entering his life; nearly dying from being Marked, having her entire life turned upside down, losing her home, her security, even her employment. And all so his brother could have a visible, tangible hold over him. To Mycroft Molly was nothing more than a convenient tool, a goldfish – and damn him for so shrewdly finding a way to kill two birds with one stone.

His brother’s reaction had been predictable; satisfaction at getting his way, irritation at Sherlock’s continued reluctance to fall into step, dismissiveness toward Molly as nothing but a convenient means to an end. Magnussen had been harder to read, but Sherlock had seen the cold shrewdness in the Vampire’s eyes that marked him as a political being cut from the same cloth as Mycroft, just as ruthless but with no personal stake in the outcome of tonight’s activities.

Brook, on the other hand…Brook made him uneasy. Not only because he was an unknown player, but also because of the way he’d looked at Molly. Like a particularly tasty morsel he wanted to devour. There was no reason for the other Vampire to look at her like that; he and Sherlock had never met before tonight, of that he was certain, so it couldn’t be due to some petty rivalry between them. Unless the rivalry was with Mycroft? His brother was a firm believer in keeping your friends (not that he had any!) close – and your enemies closer.

Sherlock knew he would have to be very cautious about it, but he would investigate all the guests at his brother’s table this evening, even Janine. Which, of course, Mycroft would expect him to do; sometimes it irked him, having to play these games, but then he glanced down at Molly’s sleeping face and he knew he’d dance to a dozen different tunes before he’d give her up to the mercy of any one of his fellow Vampires.

_Damn,_ he thought as he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, _I’ve actually done it. I’ve fallen in love with her._

“Well, fuck,” he said feelingly, unable to find a better word to express his dismay at the realization.

Molly stirred a bit, a hint of a frown appearing on her face, and he lay down next to her, taking her into his arms and murmuring softly to her, staying with her as she relaxed once again into a deeper sleep. His troubled thoughts carried him through the remainder of the night until sleep overtook him as the sun began to rise.

She slept through the morning and well into the afternoon, not stirring even when first Mrs. Hudson and then Wiggins glanced in on them. Normally Sherlock wouldn’t allow anyone else in the bedroom he shared with her, but he’d alerted them both that Molly might be somewhat fragile after their visit to his brother’s club. Even though he’d not shared any of the details with anyone, he could tell by the stricken look in his housekeeper’s eyes, and the unhappy set of Wiggins’ mouth that they both knew damn well what his brother had demanded of him.

Mrs. Hudson finally managed to rouse Molly by setting a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table; she sat up groggily, lured by the heavenly aroma, and eased the heavy weight of Sherlock’s arm off her waist in order to swing her legs over the side of the bed. He mumbled something unintelligible but remained sleeping, for which she was grateful; she needed some time to process everything that had happened to her the night before, time by herself now that her head had cleared up somewhat, even if it was still thick with sleep.

The coffee helped, although Molly wasn’t exactly looking forward to full clarity of mind. She stumbled out of the bedroom, clutching the mug and remembering at the last second to snatch up one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns to thrown on over her crumpled clubbing dress, too drained – emotionally and physically – to do more than that. A shower would probably help, but even that seemed like too much of an effort, so all she did was trudge wearily to the sofa and collapse on it, setting the half-emptied mug down on the low table and picking up Sherlock’s laptop.

She opened up a word processing document and immediately began typing up her impressions of the other Vampires who’d attended the Viewing as Mycroft’s guests, concentrating on them so that she could, for a little while at least, forget about what she and Sherlock had done.

By the time she finished Mrs. Hudson had brought her a plate of food and a refill of her coffee, silently placing the plate on the table and accepting Molly’s wan smile as thanks. Molly dutifully ate a few mouthfuls of the scrambled eggs and toast, nibbled a bit at the bacon, and drained the second cup of coffee. When Wiggins ghosted into the room as she was shutting the laptop, she’d got herself a third cup of coffee, and the events that she so desperately wished not to remember had begun insistently making their mental presence known.

The Nosferatu said nothing, just stood by the door and waited, in that patient manner of his, for Molly to say something. Which, after a long moment, she finally did. “It was awful.” Her voice cracked, and she paused, unwilling to cry in front of him even though they’d become somewhat cautiously friendly with one another.

“Yeah,” he said when she couldn’t find the words to go on. “That’s what Mr. ‘Olmes said. Said you might want Doc Morstan to come by, but to make sure an’ ask you first.”

Molly considered the offer; did she want Mary to come by? She was friendlier with the Human doctor than anyone else in Sherlock’s circle – except for John Watson, who was currently dating his fellow physician – but there wasn’t really anything Mary could do for her except lend a sympathetic ear and perhaps prescribe something to help Molly’s frazzled nerves. And the last thing she wanted was a sedative; she’d already slept more than enough for one day. So she shook her head, being sure to give Wiggins a small smile.

“Right then, back to work,” he said with a nod, but as he turned in the doorway, he hesitated, then looked back at her. “It wasn’t right, Lord Mycroft makin’ you two do that. Anyone has eyes can tell you two ain’t fakin’ nothin’ ‘bout the way you feel.” Then he clamped his mouth shut, as if he’d said more than he planned, and headed back down the stairs to his daytime post guarding the front door.

Molly was stunned; was it true, what Wiggins had just said? Were her feelings for Sherlock that obvious? And did he actually feel something more for her than just lust and (maybe) trust and friendship? The rapport they shared was undeniable, but they’d barely known each other three months. What if it was just proximity and the pull of biology?

No, she reminded herself as she curled up, hugging her knees to her chest. It was more than that, definitely on her part, and unless she was utterly misreading him, on Sherlock’s part as well.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted her brooding, coaxing her into eating something else and then taking a shower. “A nice, hot one, dear, it’ll do you a world of good. I’ll fetch you something more comfortable to wear, and get rid of that dress…I’m guessing you don’t want to wear it ever again.”

The older woman’s sympathy nearly brought Molly to tears, but she blinked them away and headed obediently for the bathroom. Once she was under the spray, however, she finally gave in and cried until she had no tears left.

When she finally calmed enough to actually think about washing her hair, she was unsurprised to find that Sherlock was just climbing into the tub to join her. He said nothing, simply turned her around so that he could reach her hair, then washed it for her, taking extra care with the conditioner, soaping up a flannel and gently cleaning every inch of her body before quickly washing himself up. The water was cooling before they finished, and he urged her to step out onto the mat and dry herself as he rinsed himself off.

Then he took her back to bed with him, holding her in his arms, kissing her softly until her eyes fluttered closed. The only thing he said to her, as she drifted off to sleep, was a whispered, heart-felt, “I’m so sorry, Molly.”

It was only four words, but it was enough to ensure that nightmares were kept at bay.

**Six Weeks Later**

As soon as the sun was below the horizon, Sherlock was fully awake and aware – and, annoyingly, alone. He almost called Molly’s name, then remembered what night it was, and instead rose to his feet, not bothering to put on any clothes as he padded barefoot to the bathroom door. He tapped on it once to let her know he was coming in – a courtesy only for those times when she was on the toilet, as experience told him that was the one personal space she absolutely refused to cede him. When he received no response, he opened the door and entered the small room.

She was sitting on the toilet – lid closed, clothing on – staring down at something in her hands. He took a step forward, and she looked up at him. When he cocked a questioning eyebrow, she sighed and shifted a bit, holding up the small plastic stick she’d been staring at. “Pregnant,” she said in a hollow voice. “Of course you’ll want to have Mary do an official test, and your brother will want to supervise or something to confirm…will he demand a paternity test, do you think? To make sure I haven’t been s-sleeping with someone else – John or Greg – on the sly?”

Her voice was shaking, and her hands; she would have dropped the test if Sherlock hadn’t deftly snatched it out of the air and deposited it on the counter. Suddenly she found herself enveloped in his arms, her head on his chest. She clutched him desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders, hot tears dampening her cheeks and his chest. It wasn’t a surprise, or shouldn’t have been; they’d been having quite a lot of sex – unprotected sex, even before the club – and the whole point of doing so was to get her up the duff. But knowing intellectually that it was going to happen, and seeing it happen, knowing that there was a new life growing inside her womb…that was something entirely different.

Thank God Sherlock was there to see her through this difficult moment. How had she been so lucky to get the one good Vampire out of a seemingly endless multitude of…well, she knew they weren’t all monsters, but that was the word that came to mind.

Mycroft Holmes, in her mind, was definitely a monster. And so, she thought with a shudder, were the cronies he’d brought along to witness her and Sherlock’s public sex at the club. Especially Richard Brook. The way he’d watched her as Sherlock carried her out when their ‘display’ was finished…she shuddered again.

“You’re not even thinking about the baby, something else is troubling you, what is it?”

Molly lifted her head from Sherlock’s chest and frowned as she met his gaze. “How do you do that?” she asked petulantly as she tried (futilely) to tug herself out of his embrace. “Because there’s no way you deduced my mind just from the way I was sniffling!”

A faint smirk appeared on his lips, and she squirmed again – to no avail, as he seemed determined to keep her in his arms. Finally she gave up and just let him do what he wanted. Which, it would seem, was to lift her up and carry her back into the bedroom. “I don’t read your mind, Molly, not consciously and certainly not deliberately,” he said as he deposited her on the bed – and quickly joined her, pinning her with both gaze and his body as he settled above her.

That was the closest he’d ever come to confirming that he had some of the mental abilities normally attributed only to the oldest and most powerful Vampires, the ones who’d lived hundreds, if not thousands, of years longer than his seven decades. Oh, there was no disguising the tentative emotional bond they’d shared ever since he Marked her, but this went beyond that. “What do you mean, not deliberately?” she demanded as she stared up at him.

“I don’t try to read your thoughts; I wouldn’t even begin to know how,” he replied. He settled himself more comfortably over her, and Molly felt a frisson of desire shiver her slender frame. She wondered if it would ever go away or lessen in intensity, her attraction to him. Or his for her; he shifted again, and she felt his arousal, his prick hardening against her clothed form, and shivered again. It was damned hard to concentrate when he gave her his full and undivided attention like this, even when there were two important matters to be discussed.

She was pregnant. Her earlier panic had faded, and she felt a growing sense of acceptance of the situation. She was pregnant, and Sherlock was letting her know, in his roundabout fashion, that he had no idea how he was reading her thoughts.


	12. The Game Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So somehow when I uploaded chapter 11, it turns out I was missing the entire last section (it starts with "Six Weeks Later"). So I recommend going back and re-reading that part before reading this part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously:_
> 
> _...Suddenly she felt the sweet thrill of his fangs piercing her flesh, and cried out in renewed pleasure as a second orgasm swelled and crested with every pull of his fangs and lips on her throat. After he’d drunk his fill, Sherlock slowly eased her to her feet. She wobbled a bit, then found herself swept into his arms. “Cover yourself, Molly, the show’s over,” he ordered her, and she looked up, dazed and uncomprehending, until she saw the frown forming on his face. She fumbled with the halter top but finally managed to pull it up, although she couldn’t seem to manage the clasp and simply held it in place instead..._
> 
> _...The last thing Molly saw before the club’s doors swung shut behind them was the watching, smiling face of Rich Brook…and the haze of red that had flooded his shark-like eyes. Shuddering, Molly buried her face in Sherlock’s shoulder and tried not to weep..._
> 
> _...She was pregnant. Her earlier panic had faded, and she felt a growing sense of acceptance of the situation. She was pregnant, and Sherlock was letting her know, in his roundabout fashion, that he had no idea how he was reading her thoughts._

“Everything looks good, very encouraging. You’ll need to up your iron intake, two pills a day instead of one and as many leafy greens and liver as you can stand to make up for the anaemia, but otherwise you and the baby are in excellent shape.”

It was Molly’s first scan; she was nearly three months pregnant, and her body was still adjusting to the additional stress a half-vampire foetus caused in a human mother. She’d already increased her iron intake once on Mary’s advice, and now the obstetrician was telling her to up the dosage yet again. Ugh; so much for ever being able to take a normal sh…

“Master Holmes? Shall I give you a print-out of the scan?” 

Molly’s temporary slide into self-pity ended with the doctor’s words; she perked up and nodded before her lover could answer. “Oh yes, please!” she exclaimed happily. Sherlock simply smiled indulgently at her as he helped her sit up. Not that she needed any help, with her barely-rounded abdomen, but it was nice to have him acting like any normal father-to-be.

Even though neither parent had planned for this pregnancy, had in fact both been coerced into it, Molly had managed to move beyond her worries and was actually excited about the baby growing inside her. Sherlock even seemed bashfully pleased, and was keeping meticulous notes as the pregnancy progressed. Some of the things he asked her about made her roll her eyes - did he really need an estimate of the amount of food she barfed up every morning? - but it was rather endearing. And not at all what she’d expected from him.

Her excitement dimmed a bit as she remembered the visit they’d been paid by Sherlock’s brother hours after he’d been texted with the news that Molly was pregnant. As expected, he’d insisted that she be thoroughly examined by his own medical professionals, but once her condition had been confirmed, he’d agree to let Sherlock take the lead again. “After all, it’s your child she’s carrying,” Mycroft had said, as if conferring a great honour on them.

Sherlock had remained expressionless until his brother left; once they were alone in the flat, he’d swept her into his arms, carried her to their bedroom and made passionate, furious love to her until the sun’s rays forced him into slumber. Exhausted, sated, and spent, Molly had tumbled into sleep right along with him, although she’d woken up shortly after noon, famished.

Luckily her morning sickness seemed to be passing, leaving her only other symptoms: an irresistible need for frequent naps and an appetite that could put an elephant to shame. Luckily her body seemed to be converting all the extra calories into nutrients for the baby, and the only weight gain she showed was in a fullness to her breasts that hadn’t been there before, and the slight bulge of her belly.

When they left the clinic she was clutching the print-out of the scan in both hands, unwilling to put it into her handbag, too busy drinking in the sight of their unborn child to pay attention to anything else. But when she heard Sherlock chuckling, she finally tore her eyes away and looked up at him. “You can hardly make out any real details at this point, Molly.”

“I can make out enough,” she retorted with an answering grin. But she reluctantly put the scan away while they climbed into the cab he’d summoned, and allowed him to pull her close to his side as it drove them back to Baker Street. “I know I’m being silly,” she murmured as she stroked her hand across her stomach, “but this just makes it...that much more real, you know? Like it’s actually happening.”

“Mm.” Sherlock’s response wasn’t what she was expecting; he seemed suddenly distracted, but by what?

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

He was quick to stretch a smile across his lips, but she could read him so well now that she didn’t even need to see his eyes in the semi-darkness to know it didn’t reach them. Nor was there any conviction in his voice as he replied, “Of course not, what could be wrong? We’re having a baby, my brother is finally going to leave us alone for a while, and your morning sickness is at an end. Everything’s fine.”

She laid a hand on his, feeling the cool flesh warming beneath her touch, but said nothing more on the subject until they reached Baker Street. Once inside, however, she asked him again. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, you’re back, how did the scan go? Did you get a print out? Can I have a peek?” Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of her flat, and while Molly was busy showing her the baby’s scan, Sherlock vanished up the stairs. The strains of his violin came floating down, and Mrs. Hudson gave a sigh. “Oh dear, perhaps you should stay down and have a cup of tea, my dear, let him work out whatever it is that’s got him in a strop, hmm?”

Reluctantly, Molly followed the older woman into her flat, glancing up toward the haunting music Sherlock was playing. She had no idea what was bothering him; it was as if a switch had been flipped, turning him from bashfully happy father-to-be to brooding creature of the night in the space of a single heartbeat.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Sherlock heard the Molly and Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps moving down the hall, then the door shutting behind them. Good. He needed time, time to think, time to plan.

Time to deal with the fact that Rich Brook had been watching them as they left the clinic after the scan. Molly hadn’t seen him, not only because of the darkness, but because the other Vampire had made damn sure to be visible only to another of their kind. No, she hadn’t seen him...but he’d been staring at her with the same hungry look in his eyes as he’d worn in the club the night they first met. He’d deliberately kept his attention on Molly even after he must have known Sherlock had spotted him. And when he did finally look the other Vampire in the eye, it had been with a cocky insolence that raised the hackles on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Brook had grinned, tilted his head and raised his hand in a mocking salute before fading away, but the message was clear: he was watching them.

Especially Molly.

Sherlock continued to play even after she came up the stairs, doing his best to ignore when she implored him once again to tell her what was wrong, even though he could feel her concern for him through whatever improbable emotional bond had formed between them. He needed to focus, to concentrate on the new problem that had just presented itself. In doing what he needed in order to placate his brother, had he simply exposed himself to another enemy...one that seemed entirely too interested in Molly?

Hours later he put the violin down, blinking a bit as he came back to himself and the world around him. The flat was silent and dark, and as he listened he could hear Molly’s breathing coming from their bedroom. She was asleep, not faking it, as he could tell both by the pattern of her breathing and by the unfocused quality of her mind when he concentrated on reading her thoughts.

His first impulse was to go to her, to take her in his arms and reassure her that it had nothing to do with her, but then what would he tell her? What good would it do to add to her stress and anxiety by telling her they were being watched by a Vampire he suspected of being even more dangerous than Mycroft?

None, it would do no good at all. She was safe enough from Brook in the daytime, and he would just have to make sure she wasn’t left alone for any length of time at night, especially outside the flat. He’d put Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson on the alert, as well as his homeless network, both mortal and immortal, and send out feelers to see if Brook was acting on his brother’s behalf or hatching some scheme of his own.

Either way, Molly was once again in danger, and this time he’d been the one to put her there. Oh, Mycroft could shoulder his fair share of the blame, true, but the bulk of it was Sherlock’s. He’d clearly given away something of his true affection for her; not an entirely bad thing as far as his brother was concerned, but a potentially deadly weapon in the hands of someone even less scrupulous, and with no family tie to keep him in check should he opt to move against them.

Mycroft was right; caring wasn’t an advantage, but it was far too late for Sherlock to stop.

No, he’d well and truly fallen in love with his mortal consort, and would never forgive himself if that love put her in harm’s way. Her, or the new life currently growing inside her. His fists clenched as he thought of any harm coming to their child, and he silently cursed his brother for forcing yet another hostage to fate on him.

His mind worked feverishly as he paced the sitting room, having automatically put his violin and bow back into their case and stowed them under his desk. Much as he wished to whisk Molly off someplace relatively safe and out of the way - then ancestral pile came to mind - there simply weren’t enough people he trusted to keep an eye on her. Not without raising his brother’s suspicions and threatening the still-fragile relationship he was fostering with the rebel group to which Lestrade and John Watson belonged.

That thought gave him pause; would he ever give them up to his brother in exchange for Molly’s safety? The possibility had to be considered...but not now. He refused to add another layer of worry to his already-considerable load.

Not for the first time in his life he cursed his conscience; why hadn’t he become like almost every other Vampire and simply ceased to care about the bulk of humanity once he was Turned? What about him made him different? It probably wasn’t genetic, unless it was something his mother had passed to him but not Mycroft. It wasn’t his massive intelligence - again, Mycroft was evidence that intellect and conscience didn’t automatically go hand in hand.

Whatever it was, he was unwilling to spend the rest of the night struggling with it. Suddenly all he wanted to do was be with Molly, to hold her in his arms and make love to her, to sink his fangs into her throat and drink his fill of her, to taste any new changes in her blood since he’d last bitten her a month ago.

She’d been unhappy with his insistence on taking his sustenance from other Humans, but he’d been adamant that he not take more blood from her than the barest minimum. “You’ll need your strength during this pregnancy, and I promise, it’s just blood when I take it from anyone else. Nothing sexual about it.” 

Those words hadn’t been nearly as comforting as he’d meant them to be, judging by her reaction, but she’d eventually seen reason. And the fact that he was actually compensating anyone he fed from mollified her even more, knowing he wasn’t simply pulling some random stranger off the street as so many of his kind did. 

But it didn’t mean she liked it, any more than he did. No one else’s blood tasted quite like hers, and his thirst for it was raging right now, fed by his uneasiness over Richard Brook.

He entered the bedroom as quietly as always, but Molly’s breathing altered before he’d even reached for the first button on his shirt, and he heard her stirring. “Sherlock?” she mumbled, leaning up on her elbows, her hair a tangled, glorious mess hanging over her shoulders as she rubbed her eyes.

“Yes,” he said simply, then sped up his movements until Human eyes would perceive him as nothing but a blur, causing Molly to gasp as he suddenly appeared by her side. He covered her body with his own, impatiently pulling the oversized t-shirt she was wearing up and off her body, careful not to tear it. It had belonged to her father, and she wore it only when she was feeling most vulnerable.

Like tonight.

 _No._ He refused to think about the evening’s unpleasantness. Molly needed him, and if he couldn’t comfort her with the truth - small comfort though it would be - then he would comfort her the only other way he knew how.

With that in mind, he kissed her, reaching down with one hand to pull at her knickers, this time uncaring if he damaged the flimsy garment. Molly gasped as he brushed her slit with two cool fingers, then gasped again as he sat up, pulling her against his body. He yanked her head back, holding tightly to her hair, baring her throat to him.

She responded exactly as he knew she would, by holding tightly to his upper arms and moaning. He couldn’t hear her thoughts, but he could feel the desire flooding through her, feeding his own; with a snarl he bent his head, fangs fully extended, and took what was so willingly offered.

VV VV VV VV VV VV VV

Molly could tell that something was still troubling Sherlock, but right now it felt too good to have his mouth moving against her throat, his fangs embedded in her carotid artery as he drank her blood, for her to worry about it. Whatever it was could keep until he was ready to tell her...or until she could convince him to tell her about it.

She moaned as he pulled her more snugly onto his lap, his body warming against hers, his cock thick and hard against her sex. She was already wet for him, could feel the sticky dampness between her legs as he continued to suck hard at her throat. She drew his head closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her nipples pebbling as they rubbed against his chest. He groaned, one hand sliding down her back to come to rest on her hip, then suddenly pulled his mouth away, much to her disappointment.

Before she could express that disappointment, he darted his head down, kissing her, smearing her own blood against her lips. It should be repulsive, disgusting, but instead she felt a flush of desire sheeting over her body like wildfire. She returned the kiss with equal passion, reaching down to grasp his cock in one hand. He retaliated by roughly palming one nipple, then pushing her back so she toppled onto the bed. He was on her like lightning, thrusting his leg between hers, his head darting down and mouth landing on her chest. She cried out softly as he suckled her nipples between his lips, taking turns with each breast until she throbbed with need. “God, Sherlock, please fuck me,” she begged, but he had other ideas in mind.

Ideas she wholeheartedly approved of as he made his way down her body, leaving tiny gashes and red spots as he worked her with his mouth and fangs, marking her, teasing her to the very edge of delirium as he finally reached his destination. She opened her legs for him, wordlessly inviting him to do whatever he wanted to her, and as always, he didn’t disappoint. His mouth was still cooler than Human normal, a shiver-inducing contrast against the wet heat of her sex. He dipped his tongue between her folds, working her into a moaning mess as he slowly licked his way from top to bottom and back again. She felt the graze of his fangs against her clit and bucked beneath him, part of her wanting him to do more than tease her, part of her uneasy at the thought of him biting her in such a sensitive part of the body.

Then he slid his tongue over that oversensitized nub and pressed two fingers deep inside her, and she came with a strangled shout, her fingers in his hair and her feet digging into the bed as she raised her hips. He worked her until she collapsed back to the mattress, then crawled up her body, reaching between his legs to take himself in hand. She nodded her readiness even though she was still gasping and shuddering through the aftershocks of her orgasm, confident that he would take her to that giddy height yet again - and rewarded for the confidence within minutes of his first determined thrusts.

When he reached his own completion, she heard him gasp out her name, and held him close to her body until he’d stilled. She waited while he pulled out of her, but instead of going to the bathroom like he usually did, he simply rolled onto his back, pulling her close to his side. “Sleep,” he murmured, and she obediently closed her eyes, quickly lulled into the most restful sleep she’d had since before the Viewing at Mycroft’s club.


	13. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Previously:_
> 
> _Sherlock heard Molly and Mrs. Hudson's footsteps moving down the hall, then the door shutting behind them. Good. He needed time, time to think, time to plan._
> 
> _Time to deal with the fact that Rich Brook had been watching them as they left the clinic after the scan. Molly hadn't seen him, not only because of the darkness, but because the other Vampire had made damn sure to be visible only to another of their kind. No, she hadn't seen him...but he'd been staring at her with the same hungry look in his eyes as he'd worn in the club the night they first met. He'd deliberately kept his attention on Molly even after he must have known Sherlock had spotted him. And when he did finally look the other Vampire in the eye, it had been with a cocky insolence that raised the hackles on the back of Sherlock's neck. Brook had grinned, tilted his head and raised his hand in a mocking salute before fading away, but the message was clear: he was watching them._
> 
> _Especially Molly._

**Two Weeks Later**

Molly leaned her forehead against the window with a sigh, gazing unseeingly down at the night-darkened street. Sherlock had been acting so strangely since the days after her first scan, and she was worried. Worried that he was bored with her now that she was pregnant - they hadn't made love since that last, frenzied night two weeks ago - and worried that he would push her aside now that they'd done what Mycroft wanted them to do.

Worries she knew were foolish, or tried to convince herself were foolish. There was no reason for him to have faked his feelings for her, or his happiness at the pregnancy even under the awful circumstances surrounding it. Why bother? It certainly wasn't for Mycroft's benefit; all he'd demanded of his brother was to knock her up, she reminded herself, going for cynicism to try to cover up for her current state of emotional vulnerability. A vulnerability Sherlock was bound to sense even if he was too far to actually hear her thoughts at the moment.

Which, she decided, was all to the good; either he'd scoff at her for being ridiculous or worse yet, confirm her fears by just admitting the truth of them. A truth she didn't really want to hear, no matter how much pain it might spare her going forward.

A truth, she reminded herself sternly, that existed (so far) only in her own stupid head.

"He cares for me, I know he does," she muttered to herself, rubbing a hand across her stomach and starting to turn away from the window.

"Does he now? How... _quaint_."

She froze, a chill of primal terror shivering down her spine at the sound of that unexpected voice. Even lost in her thoughts as she'd been, she should have heard him coming up the stairs, or heard the door open...but no, why should she? He was a Vampire, a dangerous one, and the only reason she knew he was there now was because he'd chosen to alert her to his presence by speaking.

"M-master Brook," she managed, despising herself for the stutter but unable to help it; he frightened her even more than Mycroft Holmes, and the fact that he was here, in the flat she shared with Sherlock while her lover was assisting Greg Lestrade and John Watson with a murder investigation, was a nightmare come to life.

She darted her eyes toward the door, wondering where Wiggins or Mrs. Hudson were, why they'd let him into the flat. Why was he here, where he had no business, and why was he smiling at her like that? "Sher...Master Holmes is out, b-but I expect him home soon if you want to wait," she said, not bothering to hide her fear, knowing that the Vampire could smell it on her, could read the micro-expressions on her face as easily as any large-print book. The only thing she wished she hadn't done was forget to use Sherlock's title in front of Brook; would he see that as a weakness to use against her lover? A weapon of some kind?

Brook shook his head dismissively, still smiling, hands in his pockets as he sauntered across the sitting room to join her by the window. He peered out disinterestedly, then leaned one shoulder against the sill, standing far too close for comfort. When she started to move away, however, he pulled one hand from his pocket at full Vampire speed, grasping her upper arm tightly enough to make her wince. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in pain, but his smile only deepened as he said, "Going somewhere, little Molly? Why? Do I make you nervous?"

"Yes," she replied, even knowing it was a rhetorical question. "Very." She tried to pluck his fingers from her arm but he merely tightened his grip and moved even closer, invading her space, stopping only when his face was inches from her own.

"Good," he said approvingly. "You should be." With his free hand he traced the silvery-white scars that formed Sherlock's monogram on her throat; she shuddered in revulsion at both the sensation of his hands on her skin and the rising tide of red flooding his irises. "You should know that this doesn't mean you're safe from other Vampires, no matter what lies you've been told." He bared his fangs and moved his head down so that his mouth hovered over her racing pulse. "If one of our kind sees something they want, they take it."

He widened his mouth, clearly about to sink his fangs into her throat; she pushed ineffectually at him and was about to scream when a new voice, a welcome and familiar voice, interrupted them. "Really, Brook? In my own flat? Rude."

"Sherlock," Molly breathed out, but then furrowed her brow in confusion when he didn't immediately order the invader to let her go. Indeed, the look he flashed her was one of irritation, and she felt a rush of mortification as she realized she'd forgotten herself again. "I, I'm sorry Master Holmes, forgive me. I was a bit, um, distraught."

He gave her a cool nod before visibly dismissing her as he tossed his coat onto its hook and headed for the sofa.

"Sorry, Sherlock, what can I say," Brook said with a smirk, his grip on her arm not easing the slightest bit. "I simply couldn't help myself, your…consort, was it, you called her?...is simply too delicious to resist." He leaned down and deliberately licked at her throat, although opposite the scars this time.

Sherlock looked bored as he flopped down onto the sofa and picked up his violin from where it rested on the floor. "Then drink your fill and get it over with," he said in his most indifferent voice as he tucked the instrument under his chin and raised the bow. "If that's all you came for, you can show yourself out after."

Molly's eyes were wide and she felt as if she'd been run over by a lorry. In the club Sherlock had treated Brook as a potential rival, had been protective of her and threatening toward him; why would he be essentially offering her up to him now? If this was part of his plan to keep Mycroft from discovering where his true sympathies lay, it wasn't one he'd shared with her.

Brook's fingers moved on her neck, but he'd turned his head to give Sherlock a contemplative look. "And what if I want more than just her blood? She looked like a good fuck at the club, Sherlock, mind if I have a go at her now?"

Sherlock waved the bow airily and shrugged. "If you like," he said. "But we both know that's not what you came here for, so why not just cut to the chase and leave my pet out of it?" He grinned his most insincere grin as he added, "Besides, I'd rather not have to go through the tedium of another public display if anything were to happen to the baby. You know how Mycroft gets when some upsets his plans."

Brook looked entirely uncaring of whatever Mycroft might think, but he did finally release his hold on Molly, tucking his hands back into the trouser pockets of his expensive designer suit and strolling over to stand closer to Sherlock.

"Mycroft's why I'm here," he said easily as Sherlock continued to rosin his violin bow. "And to have some fun with your little pet; I wasn't lying when I said she was delicious. So quiet and deferential until you got her out on the dance floor, and then suddenly the mouse became quite the tiger! Can't blame you for wanting to keep her for yourself. You were awfully protective of her there," he added musingly. "So why the change of heart?"

Sherlock shrugged, his attention apparently fully on his violin; he plucked a few strings, frowned, and began fussing with the tension of the strings. "I put on a show for my brother, let him see what he wanted to see, believe what I wanted him to believe - that he has a real hold over me because of Molly - so he'll more or less leave me alone. I've no objection to you either biting or fucking my slave unless doing so serves one of his agendas. Then all bets are off." He gave his most insincere smile, the one that was little more than a baring of his fangs.

Molly's heart plummeted into her shoes; no matter how many times she told herself this was all for show, she couldn't convince herself it was true. She'd heard Sherlock refer to Brook as a new challenge; could it be that he found the idea of a new adversary more appealing than playing at domesticity? Worse, what if he was bored with helping Greg and John with their cause, what if it had been nothing but a, a...great game to him all this time?

"Tsk," Brook said in mock dismay, "what a way to talk about your sweet little pet! Aren't you worried she'll go running to Mycroft, tell him everything in hopes that he'll set her free?"

"Molly," Sherlock said, enunciating every word quite clearly, "knows who she belongs to - and that I'm the only thing keeping my dear brother from ripping her throat out. None of which has anything to do with your presence in my flat this evening. So. Why are you here, again?"

Brook's air of faint amusement vanished as he stared at Sherlock. The short hairs on the back of Molly's neck bristled at the air of menace he exuded, as if it had somehow intensified into an almost-visible dark cloud hanging around him. "You need allies, Sherlock. Everyone knows you and your brother barely tolerate one another. Tie your fortunes to mine, and I guarantee he won't be the brother left standing."

Sherlock laughed, not the reaction Molly had been expecting. Nor Brook, judging by the the confused look on his face. One he quickly masked under an exaggerated pout. "What, you think this is a joke?"

Sherlock shook his head, all signs of mirth banished as he glowered at Brook. Molly had never seen him look so threatening, and took a hasty step back, one hand groping for the window sash as she felt the sudden need for support. "No, I know you're serious, Brook. And if I were interested in bringing my brother down, I might even consider your offer."

Sherlock moved so fast that Molly only saw a blur; suddenly he was towering over Brook, who merely blinked and stared up at him with a lazy smile. "However, Mr. Brook, I'm afraid I'm not interested in ruling the world. Taking down my brother would mean I'd have to take his place and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's government work."

He gave an exaggerated shudder to punctuate his point before stepping around the other man. Towards Molly. "Now. If you're finished making offers I find all too easy to refuse - and if you're sure you don't want a taste?" He tilted his head toward Molly and raised an eyebrow, reaching out to curl his fingers around her neck while she tried to remember how to breathe. "No? Then please excuse me, my actions at the club notwithstanding, I really do prefer not to feed - or fuck - in front of an audience."

"What a pity," Brook pronounced before shrugging lightly and strolling toward the front door. "Do let me know if you change your mind - about that or about taking out your brother. You wouldn't necessarily have to take over his duties as head of the Holmes Clan if you officially joined another one. But of course, you know that."

"I'll be sure give your proposal all the consideration it deserves," Sherlock replied, matching Brook stare for stare. Just when Molly thought it would devolve into physical violence between them, Brook laughed and turned his back on them, pulling the door shut behind him.

Molly's knees nearly gave out in relief, and her body shuddered in reaction. Sherlock enfolded her in his arms, but said nothing, merely held her until the violent shivers stopped.

The sound of running feet pounding up the stairs a few minutes later made her start, but he kept her firmly in his hold as he turned his gaze on the door. Wiggins appeared, panting and out of breath, panic in his eyes as he took in the scene before him. "Wot 'appened, Mr. 'Olmes?" he gasped out, his Cockney accent noticeably thicker than usual. "I was...I was watchin' out front like I'm s'posed ta, then I was down by the bloody Thames! I got 'ere fast I could…"

"Not your fault, Wiggins," Sherlock said, cutting him off coolly. "Molly's fine, I'm fine, and I'm sure Mrs. Hudson is fine, but do go and check on her as I suspect she'll just be awakening from an enforced nap."

Wiggins' fangs flashed in a snarl. "So it were an attack, I knew it! Them barstards ain't got no…"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock cut him off impatiently. "They've no idea who they're messing with, that's absolutely true. Now." His voice grew even colder. "Check on Mrs. Hudson, and have someone look in on Dr. Morstan, Lestrade and John Watson. I want a full report on everyone's status before another hour's passed, or someone will pay."

Wiggins vanished almost as quickly as he'd appeared, and far more silently. Sherlock pulled away from Molly, bracing his hands on her shoulders and looking her up and down. "All right?" he asked.

She nodded, but before she could ask any of the thousand or so questions that flooded her mind, he released her and headed for the sofa. Picking up his discarded violin, he tucked it under his chin and began playing, a mournful dirge that did nothing for her frazzled nerves.

It was pointless to try to talk to him now, and it was obvious he had no words of comfort to offer her. She sat quietly in the rocking chair he'd had Billy Wiggins provide for her, listening to him play, until finally his mobile rang. "Yes?" he snapped out, then paused briefly to listen to the answer. "Good. Keep an eye on them, only people you trust implicitly." Another pause, then an impatient, "Yes, yes, she's fine. Your job right now is to make sure John, Mary and Lestrade remain safe till morning."

He snapped the mobile shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. Molly gazed at him expectantly, but he avoided her by immediately retrieving his violin and bow and launching into a veritable frenzy of discordant playing.

With a heavy heart, she rose and made her quiet way to their bedroom to try and sleep - all the time knowing how likely it was that she would fail.


	14. Gathering the Troops

_ Previously: Sherlock moved so fast that Molly only saw a blur; suddenly he was towering over Brook, who merely blinked and stared up at him with a lazy smile. “However, Mr. Brook, I’m afraid I’m not interested in ruling the world. Taking down my brother would mean I’d have to take his place and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s government work.”  _

_ He gave an exaggerated shudder to punctuate his point before stepping around the other man. Towards Molly. “Now. If you’re finished making offers I find all too easy to refuse - and if you’re sure you don’t want a taste?” He tilted his head toward Molly and raised an eyebrow, reaching out to curl his fingers around her neck while she tried to remember how to breathe. “No? Then please excuse me, my actions at the club notwithstanding, I really do prefer not to feed - or fuck - in front of an audience.” _

_ “What a pity,” Brook pronounced before shrugging lightly and strolling toward the front door. “Do let me know if you change your mind - about that or about taking out your brother. You wouldn’t necessarily have to take over his duties as head of the Holmes Clan if you officially joined another one. But of course, you know that.” _

_ “I’ll be sure give your proposal all the consideration it deserves,” Sherlock replied, matching Brook stare for stare. Just when Molly thought it would devolve into physical violence between them, Brook laughed and turned his back on them, pulling the door shut behind him. _

* * *

Molly blinked herself awake, vaguely surprised to realize that she’d slept at all. When she stirred, she realized she wasn’t alone in the bed. Indeed, she was more or less wrapped in Sherlock’s embrace, her head resting on his chest and one leg thrown over both of his. The sheets and blanket had been kicked off at some point and lay in a heap at the foot of the bed, but she wasn’t cold, and neither was he. Apparently he’d been there more than just a few minutes, long enough for her warmth to suffuse him.

At least he hadn't moved her out of his bed, although after his coldness the night before - an emotional chill rather than a physical one - she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd ordered her to sleep on the sofa. She knew it was because of Brook and not because of anything she'd said or done, but still...she'd needed more comfort than just his arms around her after Brook had left. Maybe tonight they could talk about what had happened. She'd know soon enough; he would be up and about as soon as the sun sank below the horizon about an hour from now.

She studied him as he slept, wondering at how youthful he looked, how vulnerable with the furrows in his brow eased and the small lines around his eyes and mouth vanished entirely. She knew he’d been Turned when he was fairly young, but through some quirk of Vampire physiology, he’d continued to age in appearance until he reached his early 30s. But asleep he seemed closer to the teenager he’d been when he was Turned, and she felt a wave of compassion wash over her, almost a sense of mourning for the boy he’d been on that long-ago night.

With an unpleasant jolt, she remembered his true age: he was in his mid 70s. Old enough to be her grandfather.

She hadn’t allowed herself to think about it, even after he shared the story of his Turning. The clinical part of her had been too interested in the physical details to worry about such things, while the very female part of her had been basking in the fact that he’d told her something so intimate, so personal, about himself.

But now...now she was faced with some very unpleasant truths, truths she’d done her very best to ignore. He was a Vampire. She was Human. Unless he Turned her, one day she would grow old, like Mrs. Hudson, and eventually die while he lived on.

He and their child.

Thoughts of the new life growing within her gave her no peace, not even when she picked up the print-out of the scan and studied it. Sherlock had left the light on for her, a courtesy that normally brought a smile to her face, but not today.

She lay the scan back on the night-stand and shuddered. A frown marred Sherlock’s pale, perfect brow, his lips turning downward but his eyes remaining closed. Molly glanced over at the wind-up alarm clock to see how long she’d slept, and was stunned to see that the dial read nearly four o’clock. Somehow she’d managed to sleep most of the day away; no wonder Sherlock felt so warm against her!

Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle with hunger, and she reluctantly disentangled herself from her bedmate. Hesitating only a little, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He didn’t move, still deep in his Vampiric sleep, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet.

Her mind continued in worrying circles as she padded into the bathroom to relieve herself and splash some cold water on her face. Fears for the future, concerns about the present, nothing to bring her any sort of comfort in the moment. Even waking to find herself in Sherlock’s hold held no comfort today; why hadn’t he let her know he was coming to bed, told her what his fretful violin playing had helped him to work out the way he usually did? She tried reminding herself that Rich Brook seemed to be an even bigger threat to them than Mycroft, but that only sent her brain spinning off into even darker avenues.

She left the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. Since she’d moved in Sherlock had begrudgingly made space for her there so she wouldn’t have to rely entirely on Mrs. Hudson for meals or a cup of tea. She automatically moved a pile of empty (and clean, thankfully) petri dishes to the side in order to slide the electric kettle forward when a noise at the door froze her in place.

Even though it was daytime and she knew it couldn’t be him, she broke out in a cold sweat at the thought that Brook might have returned. Or sent someone in his place - surely he had half-Vampire Nosferatu in his employ?

She relaxed only a little as she heard a familiar calling her through the door. “Hello? It’s Mary, are you in, Molly?”

Molly let her in, feeling Mary’s curious gaze on her as she relocked the door behind her. “Are you all right?” the other woman asked, concern coloring her normally cheerful voice. “Bill Wiggins showed up at my clinic about an hour ago, telling me Sherlock wanted me to come over before it got dark, but he didn’t say why. He brought me here, let me in, then took right off again. Do you know what this is about? Are you all right?” she asked again, eyes centering on the other woman’s abdomen.

“I’m fine, just a bit shaken up, actually,” Molly replied, resting her hands on her small baby bump. She started to explain what had happened the night before, but was interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the door.

It was Mrs. Hudson, but right behind her was John Watson, and following him was DI Lestrade, whom Molly had only met once before. The two men were carrying trays laden with food, and settled them on the coffee table as they greeted the two women, while Mrs. Hudson headed into the flat’s kitchen, clearly intent on making tea.

“What is this, a war council?” Mary quipped, but her eyes were suspicious.

“Something like,” John replied. “At least, that’s how Wiggins made it sound when he rang me up earlier. He said Molly would explain, and that Sherlock wanted us all to stay here until he wakes up at dusk.”

Molly shifted uncomfortably as all eyes fell on her. Clearing her throat, she quickly told them about Rich Brook, flushing red and unable to meet any of their eyes as she explained how she and Sherlock had first met him. She hadn’t said anything to either John or Mary about the Viewing, and judging by their shocked reactions Sherlock hadn’t either. Lestrade, in fact, seemed ready to murder Mycroft and Sherlock both, let alone Rich Brook, for forcing her into such a horrible situation.

She was quick to defend Sherlock when the DI’s anger seemed ready to rocket out of control. “I agreed to do it, Greg. It seemed like the best way to keep Mycroft satisfied - I mean, that we were actually going along with what he wanted,” she stammered out, once again feeling her face heat up with embarrassment. “If Sherlock and I cooperated, then he wouldn’t feel the need to pry into our lives any further. And you know that would put all of us in danger.”

“All of us but his brother,” Greg muttered, obviously not at all appeased. “I’m beginning to wonder if trusting Sherlock was a mistake.”

“It’s not,” Molly said, with more force than she’d meant to. “And before you start making accusations, no, I’m not under some sort of spell or being controlled by him. You all know that’s not how it works anyway; even if he was controlling me, that only lasts a few hours at most.”

“Unless that’s just what they want us to think,” Greg muttered, but he seemed to have calmed a bit. “Still don’t see why he needed us to come over and wait for him to wake up. Some of us have jobs to do - no offense,” he added quickly as he realized his faux pas.

“None taken,” Molly said tightly.

“Tell us more about Rich Brook and why Sherlock thinks he’s a bigger threat than Mycroft,” John interjected, gently steering them back on topic. He nodded his thanks to Mrs. Hudson as she brought in a tray of tea cups, sugar and cream.

“Tell me why I’m being included in this strategy session first, if you don’t mind,” Mary said. “I’m not part of your little rebellion, and neither is Mrs. Hudson. So why are you acting as if we are?”

“I think it’s because Sherlock knows we’re all in the same danger, because we’re all his associates,” Molly said hesitantly.

“That’s exactly it.”

Every head swiveled toward the kitchen, every set of eyes opened in shock at the sight that greeted them: Sherlock awake and alert, standing next to Mrs Hudson with over an hour of daylight left.


End file.
